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3 


• THE POEMS OF 
LeROY TITUS WEEKS 


-Spend in all things else, 

But of old friends be most miserly. 

—James Russell Lowell 


THE POEMS 

OF 

LEROY TITUS WEEKS 



PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR 

SECOND EDITION 

1923 


fS 3S^-£~ 

S+zTPl 

M2. 3 




Copyright, 1923, 

LeROY TITUS WEEKS 







JAN 31’24 


©C1A77S010 


'Vl\> j 


Me imperturbe, standing at ease in Nature, 

Master of all, aplomb in the midst of irrational things. 

—Walt Whitman 


















CONTENTS 

BIRD POEMS 

Ode to the Bobolink .... 

The Saucy Wren. 

The Red-winged Blackbird . . . 

The Chickadee. 

The Western Meadow-lark 

The Robin. 

The Blue Jay. 

The Maryland Yellow-throat 

The Eagle. 

The Cardinal Bird. 

Bob White. 

The Mockingbird. 

Ode to the Brownthrasher . • 

IN DIALECT 

All ’At’s Out’s in Free .... 

Mah Li’l Snowball. 

God’s Ol’ Clothes. 

God’s Back Door. 

Primitive Styles. 

Choked on Sand. 

Mother Earth. 

The Ant and the Grasshopper 

FRENCH FORMS 

I’ll Paddle in Puddles No More . 
When First We Met .... 

Deep in the Wood. 

A Rondelet. 

A Triolet. 


PAGB 

15 

18 

21 

23 

25 

28 

29 

32 

33 
35 
37 
39 
4i 


47 

50 


57 

60 

61 

63 


. 67 
. 69 

. 70 

. 7 1 
. 7i 





























CONTENTS 


The Critic ..7 1 

Too Late.7 2 

The Vanished Dream.7 2 

Sestina . 73 


SONNETS 


A Double Star . 

Four Sonnets on Peace, 

I. Nature in Repose. 

II. Sleep. 

III. World Peace. 

IV. The Peace of God. 

George Fox Cook. 

To My Mother. 

The North Pole. 

Ego. 

My Ancestry. 

My Betrothed. 

The Sacrifice. 

My Two Pay Masters. 

The All-engulfing Love. 

The Marathon. 

Be Bold. 

Orpheus to Eurydice. 

Death and Resurrection 

I. Death. 

II. Resurrection. 

My Ship Came In. 

After Death.. . 

To My Pipe. 

There's but One Morning for the Rose of Life 

“The Blues”. 

Sisyphus.. 

Shepherding the Fold. 

October Peace. 

Tapestries. 

Hawthorne. 

To John Burroughs. 

To James Russell Lowell. 

To Daniel Sylvester Tuttle. 


• 77 


78 

78 

79 

79 

80 

81 

82 

83 

84 

85 

86 

87 

88 


89 

90 

9 1 


92 

93 

94 

95 

96 

97 

98 

99 

100 

101 

102 

103 

104 

105 

106 





































CONTENTS 


Alexander Hamilton 
Abraham Lincoln 
Shelley. 


107 

108 

109 


MISCELLANEOUS 


Rizpah . .. 

The Tumalum. 

My Mountain Maid. 

The Song of the Sickle. 

In Bohemia. 

Arcadee . 

Snowing . 

A Day in June. 

Spring. 

The Maiden Spring. 

The Thorn Is in Bloom. 

After Autolycus. 

My Philosophy. 

The Heart Knoweth Its Own Bitterness . . 

Immortality.* . . . 

O God, Be Bountiful to Me. 

The Minute Man. 

Transfiguration .. 

Life. 

Algomar. 

I Go, I Go. 

Apollo. 

Easter.. 

Memorial Hymn. 

O, Holy Spirit. 

God-Kind. 

Peace on Earth, Good Will toward Men . . 

The Mermaid’s Song. 

Love and I . 

Molly Bawn. 

Night 

Bimini. 

Serenade.* •» • • • 

Fairy Lullaby. 


113 

118 
120 
122 
124 
126 
128 

130 

131 

133 

135 

136 


137 

139 

140 

141 

142 

143 
146 
148 


150 

152 

153 
155 


. 156 

• I5 £ 
. 158 

. 160 
. 163 
. 165 
. 167 


. 168 


1 


170 

171 




































CONTENTS 




What is it that Tugs at My Heart? . 



. 

Christmas 1915. 



• 

Christmas 1916 . 



• • 

Christmas 1917. 



• • 

Christmas 1918 . 



• 

Christmas 1919. 



• • 

Christmas 1920 . 



• • 

Christmas 1922. 




Heartsease and Rue. 



• 

The White Stag. 



• 

Loss and Gain. 



• 

The Ballad of the Young Woodman . 



• 

To James Whitcomb Riley . . . 




Faith and Doubt. 



• 

To George Fox Cook. 



• 

Lover’s La.ne. 



• 

Old Clear Creek. 



• 

Despair. 



• 

Ballooning Spiders. 



• 

The Rainbow Bridge. 



• 

Trust. 



• 

Back Unto God. 



• 

The Fountain. 



• 

Topch and Burden. 



• 

QUATRAINS 








The Vision of Dante. 
















Behold, I will Deliver Thee . . . 




The Heart and the Brain .... 












JUVENILE 




The Fairy’s Kiss. 




Santa Claus . 



. 

My First Love. 



• • 


173 

175 

176 

178 

i8o 

182 

183 

184 

185 

186 

187 

189 

191 

193 

194 

195 

196 

197 

198 

199 

200 

201 

202 

204 

207 

207 

207 

207 

208 

208 

208 

208 

209 

213 

217 

220 


























CONTENTS 


Who Stole the Chicken? . 

A Charm for Warts. 

FREE VERSE 

War. 

Enceladus. 

Amphion. 

I Hold the Reins. 

Tommy Rot. 


222 

223 


. 227 

• 234 

• 237 

• 239 
. 241 




















BIRD POEMS 

Whar de branch runs google an’ de leaves is green. 

—Joel Chandler Harris 




















ODE TO THE BOBOLINK 

“W inkle-wankle-wonkle-winkle, 

Tee-a, tee-a, tumple-tinkle,” 

So my tipsy bobolink’ll 
Jubil all the day. 
“Rinklety-ranklety-rumple-rinkle,” 
Until night with starry twinkle 
Stops his jingling lay. 

Sweet is thy music, O wild little rover! 
Tumbling, glee-drunk, into billows of clover; 
Merry as Bacchus and sweet as Apollo,— 

Thy careless foot crumpling the lily’s corolla. 
“Fink”.“Fink.” 

“Inkle-y-, ankle-y, onkle-kinkle,” 
Teasing out the snarl and crinkle 
Of the toiler’s brain; 

From a flaunting rag-weed teeter, 
With intoxicating meter, 

Flows thy silver strain. 

Sweet bird, I slip this yoke of toil! 

Though weeds may grow and crops may spoil, 
I hold the cares of life at bay 
To spend with thee this matchless day. 

Here in these meadows drowsed with bloom, 
15 



i6 


ODE TO THE BOBOLINK 


Edged round with lace from spider’s loom, 

I sink into the arms of June 
As tired hands relax at noon, 

And let my heart be glad and free, 

While bobolink pours over me 
The pearls he drank in drops of dew, 

While stars were out, and morn was new. 

“Joy! jollity! jubilee! 

Wirblety-warble, happy me! 

Rest and dream, O tired mortal; 
See! I push a secret portal, 

And let in a shining throng, 

Piping Nature’s wonder song.” 

“Pinklety-panklety-punkle-pinkle,” 

So his broken revels sprinkle 
O’er me till I catch the sweetness 
Of the season’s rich completeness,— 

Till my soul escapes its keeper, 

Leaves the earth, and soars to deeper 
Vasts of light, by wing unaided, 

Where bird and earth are hushed and faded, 

And upon my inner vision 
Breaks the glow of fields Elysian, 

While from hosts of The Eternal 
Comes the symphony supernal, 

And those songs I lisped and stuttered 
I hear again divinely uttered. 

A thrill of sweet emancipation! 


ODE TO THE BOBOLINK 


17 


A flash of blest transfiguration! 

Then slow I waken to the bird 
In meadows by wind-ripples stirred. 

“Wifey, Wifey, come and see 
What Tve built for you and me: 

A bridal palace by a willow, 

With blue-sky roof and cloud-down pillow; 
With sun-lace curtains at the door, 

And wind-wove carpets on the floor. 

I dreamed it all, and built it so 
With inspiring tremolo 
Of Love’s all-creative glee;— 

I sung it into life, you see. 

Whisper, whisper, went the breeze; 

(I coaxed it with my symphonies.) 

Whisper, whisper, went the dew; 

(It went because I sang of you.) 

Whisper, whisper, went the light, 

And whisper, whisper, all the night, 

The busy elves of earth and air; 

And whisper, whisper, everywhere, 

Those lips that breathe the breath of life: 
And, lo! all earth in beauty rife 
With love-forms to pleasure you. 
Linkle-lankle-lonkle-linkle, 
Rimple-y-rimple-y-rumple-rinkle, 

Fink.Fink.” 



THE SAUCY WREN 


Merry-hearted little wren, 

In the honeysuckle, 

Nests again and sings again: 
“Chuckle-chuckle-chuckle l” 

Oh, but he is full of fun! 

Oh, but he is airy! 

Like a dancing fleck o’ sun, 

Or a tipsy fairy. 

Life is such a happy joke! 

Nesting is so jolly! 

Laughs until he has to choke— 
Prince of fun and folly. 

Flitting through the trellis slats, 
Blowing vocal bubbles; 

With an eye on prowling cats, 

Sings away his troubles. 

Little scamp! he stole my fruit; 

Snipped the reddest berry; 

Gave me saucy looks, to boot; 

That was naughty, very! 

I stuck a scare-crow in the patch— 
Oh, but it was awful! 

18 


THE SAUCY WREN 


19 


There he perched and sang a catch, 
And filled his little craw full. 

Yes, and then he built his nest 
Under that old hat, sir; 

Perked his tail and did his best 
To warble, “Tit for tat, sir!’’ 

Like him? I should say I do! 

He may have the berries. 

Fact—he only snips a few, 

And never touches cherries. 

Put him up a little box, 

Anything that’s handy, 

’Bout the vernal equinox— 

Empty can is dandy. 

Place it where’s a chance to hide 
From the English sparrow; 

Make the doorway not too wide— 
Inch is plenty narrow. 

Screen it same as I do mine, 

In the tousled tangle 

Of the honeysuckle vine, 

Or some cosy angle. 

He’ll move in the first o’ May,— 
Strew your porch with litter,— 

But pay his rent up every day 
With his merry twitter. 


20 


THE SAUCY WREN 


Merry-hearted little wren, 
With your happy chuckle, 
Come again and nest again 
In my honeysuckle! 


THE RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD 


On a flaunting flag the red-wing swings, 
(“Onk-o-lee I”) 

He dips and sways and tilts his wings 
To the rollicking south wind as he sings, 
“Ka-lonk-o-lee! 

One, two, three, 

Nestlings hid where none can see. 
Ka-lonk-o-lee!” 


In a button-bush or a tussock deep, 
(“Onk-o-lee!”) 

Is the sly little nest where his babies sleep, 
While sheltering reeds their vigils keep. 
“Ka-lonk-o-lee! 

Blithe and free, 

With June and sunshine I agree. 
Ka-lonk-o-lee 


Oh, the Blue is bluer when he comes, 
(“Lonk-a-lee!”) 

The bee in the maple blossom hums, 
The field and the lark again are chums. 
“Ong-filla-ree! 

The waking lea 

Is sweet with the breath of Arcady. 
Ong-kulla-ree!” 

21 


22 


THE RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD 


The flags are aflame with his epaulet— 
(“Klong-kulla-ree!”) 

That sparkle of red on a jacket of jet; 

Oh, he is the summer-time's gay cadet! 
“Ka-lonk-o-lee! 

Spring’s a-glee, 

From the Hudson down to the Oconee. 
Ka-lonk-o-lee!” 

As sweet as the lover’s sweetest theme, 
(“Glong-go-lee!”) 

Are the shadowy pools in the loitering stream, 
Or the pond where the water-lilies dream. 
“Ka-lonk-o-lee! 

To Pan and me 

The reeds have willed their melody. 
Ka-lonk-o-lee!” 

When they meet for a sing in the wooing-time, 
(“Jubilee!”) 

’Tis the gurgle of water in joyous rhyme, 

Or the golden peal of a tuneful chime— 
“Ka-lonk-o-lee! 

What a jamboree 

We’re havin’ up here in the sycamore-tree! 
Ka-lonk-o-lee!” 


THE CHICKADEE 


The chickadee tilts, 

On a sycamore bough. 

In cute little kilts 
The chickadee tilts, 

And merrily lilts 

To his sweet little Frau 
The chickadee tilts 
On a sycamore bough. 

The chickadee wears 
A cunning black cap. 

In all his affairs 
The chickadee wears, 
With genial airs,— 

The dear little chap,— 
The chickadee wears 
A cunning black cap. 

The chickadee’s song 
Is “Chick-a-dee-dee.” 

It is not very long. 

The chickadee’s song; 

Not much in a throng, 

But it satisfies me. 

23 


THE CHICKADEE 


The chickadee’s song 
Is “Chick-a-dee-dee.” 

The chickadee nests 
In a hole in a tree. 

The cats are not guests 

Where the chickadee nests 

No robber molests 
His little tepee. 

The chickadee nests 
In a hole in a tree. 

The chickadee stays 
All the year round. 

On cold winter days 

The chickadee stays; 

The cat-bird delays 
Till daisies abound; 

The chickadee stays 
All the year round. 


THE WESTERN MEADOW-LARK 


Welcome, dear bird, with your gay yellow breast, 
Your sweet song of cheer, and your snug little nest 
In a sly grassy tuft out there in the field, 

By a neat clover pergola deftly concealed. 
“Yanky-doo-de^i/e-doodle. Yank-£ 0 -doodle-doodle.” 

I wander through woodland where bloodroots are white; 
Hepaticas greet me, and that tiny sprite, 

Blue Johnny-jump-up, winks at the sky, 

Making love to the South Wind whispering by, 

While in from the meadow there comes a clear note,— 
A mouthful of joy from Meadow-lark’s throat. 

It adds to the beauty of flower and spray; 

And makes the gay season seem even more gay. 

“I can’t say the last syllable.” 

“1 can’t say the last syllable.” 

He changes the record, for variety’s sake; 

O, it’s any old tune, this jolly country-jake: 

From warbling on the wing like merry bobolink, 

To the banjo twang, with its plunk-a, plank-a, plink. 
“Thirteen kilowats. Thirteen kilowats.” 

“K-doodle, k-doodle, k-doodle.” 

25 


26 THE WESTERN MEADOW-LARK 


He tells what he thinks of modern free verse : 

He calls it plain claptrap, or something worse; 

He pricks their balloon with his sharp little needle: 
“Tweedle-dum-tweedle. Tweedle-dum-tweedle I” 

Once when his sweetheart refused a caress, 

He pouted around in mimic distress; 

He flirted his tail in a comical way,— 

And I cocked my ear, and I heard him say: 

“You’re a little too particular!” 

“You’re a little too particular!” 

Sometimes he pretends like he’s at the race, 
Starting his horse in the free-for-all pace; 

And as the wheels go whirling by, 

He sends him off with a jubilant cry: 

“Let ’er go, Gallagher!” 

“Let ’er go, Gallagher!” 

And then, when the racers, with thundering speed, 
Come down the home-stretch, his horse in the lead, 
He shouts and hurrahs in triumphant delight, 

A cloud-burst of joy, a pinch of dynamite: 

“Oh! Gee-whillaker!” 

“Oh! Gee-whillaker!” 

When he sees me coming across the flat, 

In my big tramp boots and my Boy Scout hat, 

He sends me a greeting as warm as a kiss 
In meadow-lark lingo, something like this: 


THE WESTERN MEADOW-LARK 


“Doctor Weeks is my tillicum.” 
Doctor Weeks is my tillicum.” 1 

1 Tillicum, a Chinook word meaning pal. 


THE ROBIN 


“Pillywink, pollywog, poodle, poodle, 

Pollywog, poodle, pillywink, pillywink, 

Poodle, poodle, pillywink, pollywog, 

Poodle, poodle.” 

That’s the robin with his blithesome bugle, 

Filling the spring with gurgle, google. 

“Jellaby, Jellaby, julep, mint julep, 

Julep, Jellaby, julep, Jellaby, julep, 

Sip, sip.” 

“Ballyhoo, ballyhoo, hooligan, hooligan, silly, silly.” 


THE BLUE JAY 


Ho, there, gay marauder, 
Rummaging the wood! 
Pompous self-applauder, 

Braggart and defrauder, 

Bold as Robin Hood. 

Saucy imp in white and blue, 
What’s your title? Tell me true. 
Comes the answer sharp, metallic 
“Smart 

Aleck! 

Smart Aleck!” 

Impudent freebooter, 

Pirate of the grove, 

Scoffer and disputer, 

Harasser and looter, 

Everywhere you rove. 

Yet, from out that noisy throat, 
Often comes a liquid note: 
“Kickapoo, 

Peekaboo, 

Linkaloo, 

Inklepoo.” 

Then again he’ll whisper,— 

Oh, but he is sly! 

29 


30 


THE BLUE JAY 


Like a happy vesper, 

You will hear the lisper 
In the leaves near by, 

Crooning to his nesting mate 
Songs beyond me to translate: 
“Tear, 

Tee, 

Twink, 

Twee! 

Room for two: just you-and me.” 


Here I lie a-soaking 
In the scented shade, 

While he goes a-poking 
All about, and joking 
Like a jolly blade. 

Then he’ll order round his wife, 
With her busy, busy life: 

“Fill the kittle! 

Fill the kittle! 

Fill up the kittle! 
Fill the tea-kittle!” 

Once I watched a robin 
Plastering her nest. 

How she kept a-bobin’ 

In and out and daubin’, 

Shaping with her breast. 

Jay bird came a-dancing by, 

And the dwelling caught his eye;— 


THE BLUE JAY 


3i 


Sucked the eggs and flew away! 

“Jay! 

Jay! 

Jay! 

Jay!” 




THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT 


In a willow by a brook, 

(Wheety, wheety, wheety, wheety,) 
There I keep a picture-book; 

Would you like to take a look? 

Just a nest and nestlings sweet,— 
(Wheety, wheety, wheety, wheet.) 

In the water there you see 

(Weechy, weechy, weechy, weechy) 
Snap-shots of my mate and me, 

Like a dream of Arcady, 

All too delicate for speech,— 

(Weechy, weechy, weechy, weech.) 

How d’you like my mask of black? 

(Wichery, wichery, wichery, wichery,) 
How d’you like my yellow sack 
With its olive-tinted back? 

Made at Nature's, every stitch. 

(Wichery, wichery, wichery, wich.) 

Blithe and happy all the day, 

(Weety, weety, weety, weety,) 

Here I lilt my roundelay, 

On this tilting willow spray. 

Oh, but nesting-time is sweet! 

(Weety, weety, weety, weet.) 

32 


THE EAGLE 


See him come like a bolt! Hear his mighty wings rush, 
As he bursts through the cloud with a conquering 
scream! 

How my heart throbs with joy! How my eager veins 
flush 

As he flashes upon me, my own vital dream! 

See him skee through the air with his wings never 
stirred, 

A thousand feet down from his home on the crag. 

O, stout-hearted challenger! mountain-nursed bird! 
Fit emblem art thou for The Bonny Blue Flag. 

I have watched thee at battle, and have felt my own 
blood 

Arouse to thine action with wild billowings 
At the splendid display of thy trained hardihood 
In a spasm of air and a whirlpool of wings. 

O, bird of my county, 

On the cliff thou art sentry 
To welcome the morning, and warn of the night. 

O, bird, how I love thee! 

And how from above thee, 

Around and below thee, 

33 


34 


THE EAGLE 


I feel thee and know thee— 

Baptized by one hand at the same font of light. 

Together we’ve drunk at the morning’s fresh fountain; 
Together we’ve fought out the storm on the mountain; 
We’ve heard it far under 
With rock-shaking thunder 
Bumping and butting away in its wrath, 

While lightnings have gleamed as from Vulcan’s own 
forge, 

And the water-spout gored its way down to the gorge, 
Leaving the mountain scarred deep in its path. 

How like to a man art thou—dauntless in danger! 

Land-lord, and sea lord, and lord of the air. 

I look in thine eyes, O, thou sky-roving ranger— 

The spirit of distance is slumbering there. 

America mounts with thee, wide-awake, virile, 

Proud emblem of victory, soaring afar 
In widening circles, the infinite spiral, 

Where vision unbounded and liberty are. 


THE CARDINAL BIRD 


The cardinal bird is a troubadour 

With a song for the young and the gay; 

With crest aflame in a wild amour 
From a bush at the peep of day, 

He calls to his mate in tones demure: 

“First o’ May, my Dear, first o’ May.” 

The symbol of blossom and summertime joy, 
He delights both the eye and the ear. 

When Spring sends him on as near chief envoy. 

He calls as he passes near,— 

“Ahoy, Sir! ahoy, Sir! ahoy, Sir! ahoy! 

What cheer? what cheer? what cheer?” 

Along about four, on a summer morn, 

When the day begins to glow, 

And the dew glints on the knee-high corn, 

Then the birds strike up, ho, ho! 

And cardinal blows the leading horn: 

“Key-note, keeeey-note, do, do, do.” 

He eyes me askance, as I walk about 
His nest in the cedar tree; 

He tries many ways to put me to rout: 

He swells like a Spanish grandee, 

35 


36 THE CARDINAL BIRD 

Then skips here and there with a saucy shout: 
“Puccachee! you there, puccachee!” 1 

He romps through the trees with a wild hurrah, 
When the eggs begin to pip; 

You’d think a star had broke in his craw, 

Or he’d been to the sun for a dip; 

He bids all hands for a mad hurrah: 

“Three cheers! hip, hip, hip!” 

His greedy little youngsters gourmandize 
Till their bills will hardly shut; 

Grubs, and worms, and bugs, and flies, 

They gobble, and cram, and glut, 

Until you’ll hear his chiding cries: 

“Ah, ah, children! hut, tut, tut!” 

“Hello, there, hello!” he seems to call, 

“What makes mankind so poky? 

When wood, and stream, and field made call, 

The Lord himself played hookey ? 2 
There goes a squirrel along on the wall, 

Lookey! Lookey! Lookey!” 

Thanks for the hint, my bonny, bonny bird; 

I saunter off to the wood; 

My heart with primal heat is stirred,— 

And if I understood 
What these old oaks say, word for word, 

I’d join their brotherhood. 

1 Puccachee, skedaddle. 

2 See Mark vi, 31. 


BOB WHITE 


Oh, sweet to the ear 
In the early morn 
Is the whistle clear 
Over rustling corn 

Of the brown little bird whose rich content 
Is a breath of life by summer sent. 

His gladness thrills 
The heart, and spills 
The laughter of nature over the hills. 

“Bob White!” “All right!” 

“O, Bob White!” 

He sings of dells 
With rippling rain, 

Of tinkling bells 
In shady lane, 

Of sunburned cheek and sun-filled heart, 
Of joyous life in the fields apart. 

A true chevalier, 

He spreads good cheer, 

And the haunting dream of the Golden Year. 
“Bob White!” “True Knight!” 

“O, Bob White!” 

Where leaves are aflame 
In the autumn air, 

37 


38 


BOB WHITE 


His trig little dame 
With wifely care 

Will gather her brood about her breast, 
As the sun dips low in the purple West, 
And lilt love’s glee 
Across the lea— 

The deep, undying mystery: 

“Loyalty!” “Loyalty!” 

“Loyalty!” 


THE MOCKINGBIRD 


Close hid in a shrinking mimosa, 
The mockingbird carols his glee. 

O, lover! O, sweet amorosa! 

I open my heart to thee. 
Transcendent, 

Resplendent, 

The moonlight is on the lea. 

I creep to the vine-circled window; 

The lattice I silently push, 

Till in on me, worshiping Hindu, 
The sky-fire breaks with a rush. 
Sky-fire, 

Bird lyre, 

And night with her finger a-hush. 

My spirit I bathe in the moonlight, 
That floats me afar and afar, 
Transfigured this glorious June night 
To mockingbird, melody, star. 

O, spirit, 

So near it, 

The portals of heaven unbar. 

I steal o’er the lush, cool grasses, 

As slowly as creeps a shade; 

39 


40 


THE MOCKINGBIRD 


I rise, and am hid in leaf masses, 

Where dryad and bird masquerade; 

And my soul 
Drinks the whole, 

Like the soul of a love-stricken maid. 

So witching the notes are, so haunting! 

They echo through night’s vast hall,— 
Illusive, eluding, and taunting, 

They swell, and they faint, and they fall. 
Full moon, 

Heart swoon, 

And the spell of the South over all. 

Entranced, with my face in the leafage, 

I gather the rapture that rolls, 

As angels are gleaning the sheafage 
Of radiant, sanctified souls. 

Supernal! 

Eternal! 

I sight the Elysian shoals. 

That moment of transfiguration, 

Almost I had captured the clew, 

The wonder, the magic creation 
Of symphony, sky-ladder, dew. 

O, singer! 

Life bringer! 

The world is created anew. 


ODE TO THE BROWN THRASHER 


He gathers all the melodies 
That echo in the grove; 

He holds the wealth of all sweet things 
There in his treasure-trove:— 

The ripple of the rivulet, 

The trinkle of the rain, 

The purple of the sunset, 

The fragrance of the plain. 

“Pickerel, pickerel, pickerel, 

Stickle-back, stickle-back, 

Sculpin, sculpin. ,, 

Sweet chum of those rapturous days 
When I roamed the wide gardens of youth, 
When woodlands were peopled with fays, 
And people were angels, for sooth; 

When my brow wore the evergreen bays, 

And fairy tales passed for the truth. 

“Sibyllene, Sibyllene, Sibyllene, 

Apollo, Apollo, 

Hippocrene, hippocrene, hippocrene, 
Olympus, Olympus.” 

4i 


42 ODE TO THE BROWN THRASHER 


We mated for life, we two, 

Back there when our hearts were free; 

We blended as summer winds do 
With vapors that rise from the sea; 

As rainbows will mingle with dew 
When moonlight is on the lea. 

“Kittiwake, kittiwake, kittiwake, 

Curlew, curlew, 

Bobolink, bobolink, bobolink, 
Whippoorwill, whippoorwill. ,, 

O singer of visions and dreams, 

What vistas of life you unfold! 

What music of murmuring streams, 

What wealth of Pactolian gold! 

Suggestions of ultimate gleams 

Where the Milky Way’s glory is rolled. 

“Aquarius, Aquarius, Aquarius, 

Alcor, Alcor, 

Orion, Canopus, Arcturus, 

Virgo, Virgo.” 

You sing the deep secrets of God, 

Sweet child of the blossom and breeze! 

You have perched on the sacred tripod, 
And sucked with the Hyblaen bees; 

And you pour all that glory abroad 

Over meadowlands, fountains, and trees. 


ODE TO THE BROWN THRASHER 


43 


“Tickle-top, tickle-top, tickle-top, 

Loblolly, loblolly, 

Columbine, columbine, columbine, 
Laurel, laurel.” 

Like a poet, you mount in your singing, 
From twig to twig, higher and higher, 
Like incense to God upward winging, 

Till my soul, from thy soul, catches fire, 
And my own inner landscape is ringing 
With notes from Israfeli’s lyre. 

“Melba, Melba, Melba, 
Gallicurci, Gallicurci, 

Caruso, Nordica, Schalki.” 

But sweetest, when daylight is done, 

You descend again into the cover, 

A twig at a time, till you’ve won 
A perch by your mate, just above ’er, 
Where you sing a song equaled by none 
Ever poured in the ear of a lover. 

“Butterfly, butterfly, butterfly, 

Ladybird, ladybird, 

Katydid, katydid, katydid.” 

O Bird, when I lie in my tomb, 

But come thou and lilt to me there, 

And I will arise from its gloom 


44 


ODE TO THE BROWN THRASHER 


To meet with thy song in the air; 
Its rapture my life will relume, 

And we will eternity share. 

“Armadillo, armadillo, armadillo, 
Gazelle, gazelle, 

Chickaree, chickaree, 

Antelope, antelope, antelope, 
Salamander, salamander, salamander, 
Nautilus, periwinkle, lemellibranch, 
Emerald, emerald, 

Farewell, farewell, farewell, farewell, 
Goodnight.” 


DIALECT POEMS 

























ALL ’ATS OUT’S IN FREE 

“Hide an’ seek,” ’r “I Spy!” 

Good ol’ game of long ago! 

Keep your eye peeled like a cat! 

Git caught, ef you come pokin’ slow. 

Creep behind a locus’ tree, 

’R in the wagon-box, ’r hide 
Under some ol’ burdox clump, 

An’ fin’ a hen’s nest there; ’r slide 

Down the tater-hole an’ spile 

Your new jeans pants, jes’ made that day. 
’Member once, in tater time, 

I got a lickin’ that-a-way. 

Change coats, mebby,-—coats an’ hats; 

Then scrooch behin’ the picket fence 
So’s to show up jest enough 

To fool the baseman; consequence, 

He hollers, ‘‘One, two, three, fer Tom!” 

When it’s me; an’ nen we yell, 

An’ whoop it up till he gits hot. 

A lot o’ fun, I want to tell. 

47 


48 


ALL ’AT’S OUT’S IN FREE 


Makes my ol’ heart tickle yit 
To think how me an’ John an’ Wall 

Went into the stable once, 

An’ took a plank up in the stall, 

An’ crep’ in under in the dark, 

Wheres nobody couldn’t see, 

An’ laid there till A 1 had to yell, 

“All ’at’s out’s in free !” 

Hair’s as white now as the snow 
’At piles up in an empty nes’. 

Don’t do nothin’ any more 

But set out here an’ dream an’ res’; 

With Addison, an’ Frank, an’ Cree, 

An’ Lon, an’ Olin hidin’ there, 

Or us all scootin’ fer the base, 

While shouts of laughter fill the air. 

Then, one by one, those forms dissolve, 
Like happy dreams that I have known 

The laughter dies out of the air, 

An’ leaves me settin’ here alone; 

An’, purty soon I’ll slip away, 

An’ hide fer good, where all is still, 

Among them marble slabs ’at stand 
Knee-deep in ferns on Folin’s Hill. 


ALL ’AT’S OUT’S IN FREE 


49 


An’—when the Jedgment Day comes by, 
An’ last one they can’t find is me, 

I hope I’ll hear great Gabrul shout— 
“All ’at’s out’s in free!” 


MAH LI’L’ SNOWBALL 

What mek yo’ hah so kinkety, 

Mah liT Snowball? 

What mek yo’ face so inkety? 
Now, Honey, don’ you squall! 

Yo’ kinky hah, yo’ inky face, 

Yo’ liT stracted nose— 

Yo’ cotch ’em f’m yo’ daddy an’ 
Yo’ mammy, don’ yo’ spose? 

Yo’ daddy’s face ist lak a pot, 

An’ mammy’s blackah yit; 

An’ bof dey hah as kinkety 
As evah it kin git. 

Den how you specs yo’ dinky face 
Done gwine to happen white? 
I’ll chuck you in de flouah ba’l 
An’ keep yo’ dah all night. 

You want to be lak white folks! 

Chile, Ise ashamed o’ you! 

I git a pillar, dat I will, 

An’ beat yo’ black an’ blue! 

50 


MAH LI’L’ SNOWBALL 


White folks’ houses full o’ ghos’ 
Wid yurs lak ol’ ba’n do’; 

An’ big red tongues des lollin’ out, 
An’ draggin’ on de flo\ 

Dah now! dah now! 

Hootsy-tootsy, tuckahoe, 

Possum fat an’ pone; 

Fiddle cuore de rh’umatiz— 

An’ shake de rattle-bone 

Lak angels trompin’ in de dew, 
Whah sweetgum shadders fall. 

Sh!, mah pickaninny; sleep 
Mah li’l’ Snowball! 

Mockin’ bird a-singing’ sweet 
In de ’simmon tree. 

He say de angels gwine to come 
An’ play wid you an’ me. 

Magnolia blossoms dreamin’ down, 
Sleepy, s-l-e-e-p-y, sleep! 

Dahk a-comin’ all aroun’, 

Creepy, c-r-e-e-p-y, creep! 

Huh! Whah yo’ is, mah Honey, now 
Mah pickaninny, whah? 

Is dat yo’ eye a-shinin’ yen?— 

Dat li’l winkin’ stah? 


52 


MAH LI’L’ SNOWBALL 


I see you playin’ on dat cloud. 

Mah honey, don’ you fall! 

I wisht Ise wid you, playin’ dah, 
Mah li’l Snowball. 


GOD’S OL’ CLOTHES 


I couldn’t never seem to see 
’At God don’t wear ol’ clothes. 

Sometimes he comes to visit me 
In weeds an’ things, an’ those 

Ol’ leafy apurns Adam wore, 

Clean back in Paradise; 

An’ I jes’ like ’im all the more, 

The more he never tries 

To strut into my tater patch, 

When I’m a-hoein’ there, 

With kid gloves on, an’ duds to match 
The rigs ’at princes wear. 

I’m not a-sayin’ God is poor, 

An’ hain’t no royal robes; 

Much less I’m sayin’ he’s a boor, 

An’ likes a dress like Job’s. 

I’ve seen him wear a sunset coat, 

With stars all down the front, 

An’ little ones about the throat, 

So fine you’d haf to hunt. 


54 


GOD’S OL’ CLOTHES 


I’ve seen him wear a morning gown 
All glorious like the sun, 

An’ on his head a royal crown 
Of clouds an’ star-beams spun. 

But, jes’ the same, when he makes calls 
On Tom, an’ Dick, an’ Hal, 

He’ll mebby have on overalls, 

So’s he can be a pal. 

You see—God’s always jes’ like this: 
He speaks in your own tongue; 

You understand him like a kiss, 

Or some sweet song ’at’s sung 

By thrush or lark; or like amens, 

’At all folks understand. 

An’ then, his garments always blen’s 
With what is close at hand. 

O, him an’ me ?i We git along,— 
Especial in the woods, 

Where insect hum an’ wood-thrush song, 
An’ all poetic moods 

Of leaf an’ blossom, water sounds, 

An’ silent spirit speech, 

An’ shadders, all expounds 
What He intends to teach. 


GOD’S OL’ CLOTHES 


55 


Out there we’re brothers, him an’ me, 
Conversin’ heart to heart; 

Our suits are jes’ the same, you see: 
You cain’t tell us apart. 


GOD’S BACK DOOR 


God don’t offer me no “hand-out,” 

When I tramp to his back door; 

Nur he doesn’t make me stand out 
While I eat it, furthermore. 

Asks me in; an’ calls me brother; 

Sets me down to bread an’ wine; 

Doesn’t touch his own lips, nuther. 

Till he puts the cup to mine. 

All the ills by imps invented,— 

Meant to chafe, an’ crunch, an’ cramp, 

They melt away, an’ I’m contented, 

When God owns me—me a tramp. 

So the rich kin enter mounted, 

At the port cosheer before; 

As fer me, I’ll jes’ be counted 
As a tramp at God’s back door. 


PRIMITIVE STYLES 


I went to call on God, one day, 

An’ take some random notes. 

I thought I might accumulate 
Some fac’s an’ anecdotes. 

I lingered long upon the mat, 

To move each grain of dust; 

I fixed my hair an’ tie jes’ so, 

Because I thought I must. 

I trembled lest some awkward slip 
Should bring me in disgrace, 

Or lest some breach of etiquette 
Might banish me the place. 

But what was my astonishment 
To find cobwebs galore, 

With wasp nests hangin’ on the walls, 
An’ rat-holes in the floor. 

A snake was curled up on the bed, 

An’, would you ever think? 

A mouse was in the flour bin 
A frog was in the sink; 

The birds bathed in the finger bowl, 

An’, when God went to eat, 

57 


58 


PRIMITIVE STYLES 


The squirrels romped across the dish, 

An’ mussed it with their feet. 

Wy, all the kids in forty mile 
Jes’ romped from room to room, 

Where wa’nt no curtain on the sash, 

An’ never was a broom. 

An’ then the orchestra! My lan’! 

Some fiddled, an’ some danced, 

While some played ragtime, jazz, an’ sich, 
Jest any way it chanced. 

God hasn’t learned a single thing 
From all the fashion plates, 

Nur all the books on etiquette; 

Wy he contaminates 

The rivers every time it rains, 

An’ don’t apologize; 

He hatches skeeters, too, my sakes! 

An’ never swats the flies. 

I sauntered on into the woods, 

Where he was hivin’ bees; 

An’ when they swarm, he lets ’em go 
Wherever they dern please. 

When twilight came with whisperin’ feet, 

An’ stars were interdooced, 

He didn’t do a single thing 
To put his birds to roost. 


PRIMITIVE STYLES 


59 


But, shucks! Ise jest a-jokin’ like; 

I wouldn’t think it nice 

To stan’ around a-faultin’ God, 

An’ givin’ Him advice. 

I fess I like his unschooled ways 
Where Style don’t bullyrag, 

An’ make you dance like wooden apes, 
When Simon says “wig-wag.” 

There ain’t no other bed, I guess, 
Where I can sleep as sweet 

As right here where’s no pillow-slip, 

No coverlet nor sheet. 

You want to know the secret here, 
Where Jumbledom is rife? 

I figgered out the code one day, 

An’ what I read was—LIFE! 


CHOKED ON SAND 


Once, when I was jest a kid, 

We found a ground-bird’s nest, we did. 
They held their mouths up trustin’, and 
John Dawson filled them up with sand. 

The brutal brat thought it a joke 
To see them nestlings gulp and choke. 

O, yes, I know it is the law 

That birds must have sand in the craw; 

But there’s a counter law that saith: 

On too much sand they choke to death. 

I’m older now, an’ gittin’ gray; 

And yit, on many a hungry day, 

I’ve held my mouth up trustin’, and 
Have gulped and choked on jest dry sand. 


60 


MOTHER EARTH 


I jes been layin’ wake a spell 
A-sympathizin’ with the folks 
’At swelters in close rooms, while here 
The night is gentle, an’ these oaks 

Are breathin’ cool breaths through their leaves 
Like fairies strewin’ popies deep 
About my bed, an’ soothin’ me 
Jes right fer droppin’ off to sleep. 

I trail my hand out on the grass; 

Or lay a-lookin’ at the moon, 

An’ thinkin’ of ol’ friends ’at’s dead; 

Or list’nin’ to the night’s soft croon, 

While, off somewhere, a mockin’ bird 
Is breakin’ out in rills o’ song: 

Jes sprinklin’ all the night with pearls, 

An’ sowin’ dream-seed all along. 

I’m glad they hev their nightingales 
Across the ocean, sky-larks, too, 

’At climbs the stairways o’ the air, 

An’ lose theirselves up in the Blue. 

61 


62 


MOTHER EARTH 


You don’t ketch me a-braggin’ roun’ 

Jes cause I beat some other chap, 

An’ hev a better house or barn, 

Or hoss or cow, or tater crap. 

One glory of the nightingale, 

Another glory of the lark; 

But when the mockin’bird strikes up, 

Let foreign birds jes stop an’ hark. 

There’s sort o’ medicine, I low, 

’At comes from layin’ on the ground,*— 

Like cuddlein’ in your mother’s lap, 

Where we all used to sleep so sound. 

So, on the groun’s the place fer me, 

With some big oak a-sayin’ then: 

“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ 
Be with you evermore. Amen.” 

An’ last I’ll sleep here in the ground, 

Till that bright dawn when time is done, 

I’ll find Him tappin’ at my door, 

An’ sayin’ soft,—“Wake up, my son.” 


THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER 

When God an’ me was loafin’ once, 

The ant came bustlin’ past, 

An’ sneers, “If all did that-a-way, 

Where’d this world land at last?” 

God looked ’im over quite a spell, 

An’ then says, “Hully Gee!” 

An’ turned his back on the busy ant, 

An’ came an’ sat by me. 

An’, O, we hev such bully times, 

Jes’ him an’ me alone. 

We don’t talk much, but watch the birds, 
Or listen to the drone 

Of crickets purrin’ in the grass 
Till peace fills all the air, 

An’ comes an’ nestles in our hearts 
To bide forever there. 

I’ll mebby find his hand on mine 
In Mother’s gentle way; 

Jes’ fillin’ me with happiness 
’At words can’t never say. 

63 


64 THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER 


An’ so we’ve wandered, Him an’ me, 
Through many a spring an’ fall, 

Till, of the many chums I’ve known, 
God’s closest one of all. 

An’ when I come away at last, 

Down through the changein’ year, 
He grips my hand, an’ says to me, 
“You’ll always find me here.” 

I’m graydiaird now, an’ only wish 
I’d left the ants to plod, 

An’ spent more time out in the woods, 
Jes’ loafin’ there with God. 



FRENCH FORMS 



















I’LL PADDLE IN PUDDLES NO MORE 

(virelai nouveau) 


I’ll paddle in puddles no more; 

The ocean lies luring before. 

I leap to the boat and the oar; 

I push from the shoal and the shore. 

There waits me my ship of the line;— 

O, welcome the roll and the roar! 

And welcome the sea-birds that soar, 

The surge and the smell of the brine! 

I’ll paddle in puddles no more. 

Like draughts of a long-treasured wine 
That tingles my frame to the core; 

Like mountain air scented with pine, 

It kindles my heart to explore,— 

To knock, and unlock every door 
Where Wisdom and Beauty keep store. 

Like a smile of the Presence Divine, 

The ocean lies luring before. 

From foot-rope to spanker-sheet pour 
The seas with their gleaming phosphor; 

I lean from the yard-arm before, 

While the dashing spray, fresh and saline, 
67 


68 I’LL PADDLE IN PUDDLES NO MORE 


Drives home to my heart through each pore. 
I chant from the primeval score, 

With my fathers, the vikings of yore. 

I’ll paddle in puddles no more. 

With rapture I watch my prow gore 
Its way to the land where I swore 
To plant a victorious ensign. 

O, soul of me, never repine! 

Be it north in the polar seas frore, 

Or where the hot tropic suns shine 
Ablaze perpendicular o’er,— 

The spirit of emprise be mine! 

The ocean lies luring before; 

I’ll paddle in puddles no more. 


WHEN FIRST WE MET 

(roundel) 

When first we met, an influence sweet, 

Like scent of rose with dew-drops wet, 
Breathed on my heart, that quicker beat, 
When first we met. 

My hands I fill, to pay my debt, 

With coin stamped in Love’s furnace heat, 
And with Love’s superscription set. 

And here, safe housed in love’s retreat, 

I bless the unseen power yet, 

That stayed by thee my wandering feet, 

When first we met. 


60 


DEEP IN THE WOOD 

(a rondeau) 

Deep in the wood I love God best; 

There I am his distinguished guest. 

There glows the primal stamp of good; 
There moves the elemental mood 
Wherein my soul finds every quest. 

I live full life, supremely blest; 

No dissipating imps intrude 
Deep in the wood. 

The “Open secret” manifest, 

Or through far vistas sweetly guessed, 

Beams forth from leaf or saw-log rude; 
All things with hallowed eyes are viewed, 
Deep in the wood. 


70 


A RONDELET 


A rondelet: 

The best of wine in purest gold. 

A rondelet: 

A star-beam caught in music’s net; 

A crystal thought in beauty’s mould; 
Your eyes, my Love, deep in them hold 
A rondelet. 

A TRIOLET 

I took just a kiss. 

But her lips would repeat. 

What rapture! what bliss! 

I took just a kiss. 

You see, it’s like this: 

“With what measure ye mete—!” 

I took just a kiss, 

But her lips would repeat. 

THE CRITIC 

I tweedle-lee-leed, 

And I twoodle-loo-looed. 

The critics decreed, 

So I tweedle-lee-leed. 

They’re a Lilliput breed, 

But they have to be wooed, 

So I tweedle-lee-leed, 

And I twoodle-loo-looed. 

71 


TOO LATE 

I would bid her forgive, 

But the grave lies between us. 
Like wine in a sieve, 

(I would bid her forgive) 

Is the life that we live,— 

Like a transit of Venus. 

I would bid her forgive, 

But the grave lies between us. 


THE VANISHED DREAM 

I had a sweet dream, 

But it vanished with morning. 
How fair did it seem! 

I had a sweet dream; 

’Twas a heavenly beam 
My dark life adorning. 

I had a sweet dream. 

But it vanished with morning. 


72 


SESTINA 

“The very acme of metrical ingenuity.” 
—Johnson, “Forms of English Poetry.” 


In May all magnets point to Hope, 

And every throat will sing a song. 

There’s not a soul may droop and mope,— 
Each has the earth and sky for scope, 

In which to try his pinions strong, 

That are tethered in the throng. 

With bees and blooms the meadows throng; 

The south wind sings a song of hope, 
That urges us with impulse strong 
To join in Nature’s wonder-song, 

That has all realms of life for scope, 
Where never heart should pine or mope. 


All winter long trees seemed to mope; 

But now, like some embattled throng, 
Their branches push to wider scope, 

And bourgeon in victorious hope, 

While nesting birds pour out their song 
In streams of rapture sweet and strong. 
73 


7 4 


SESTINA 


The rivers swell with current strong, 
That icy fetters forced to mope; 
The rills join in the waking song; 
The rain-clouds all, a happy throng, 
Are pouring down melodious hope 
Of summer days and sun-lit scope. 


The pupa, in its narrow scope, 

Has felt the life-urge deep and strong, 

And struggles with a glowing hope 
No more, a worm, to creep and mope, 

But soon to join the soaring throng, 

A living dream of summer song. 

In May each heart will sing its song 
Of ampler vision, broader scope, 

Where all our loves and dreams shall throng, 
And life’s great ocean, full and strong, 

Shall drown all fiends that lag and mope, 
And every lip shall whisper—“Hope!” 


O, white-winged Hope, with angel song! 
Let sluggards mope, we crowd thy scope 
With pulses strong, a joyous throng. 


SONNETS 








A DOUBLE STAR 


Give me Love’s password—fearless I’ll face God. 
Love spoke the word that roused the primal soul; 
It freed the Son of Man from death’s control. 

All paths of life its happy feet have trod: 

Love dons the wooden shoe to moil and plod, 

It crowns Madonna with the aureole, 

By every hovel takes its golden toll, 

And walks the royal court in velvet shod. 

Two lovers be who drank pain to the lees, 

Yet o’er all lovers else exalted are; 

Twin luminaries in the heaven, these, 

In Love’s bright galaxy a double star: 

And when Love softly whispers—“Heloise!” 

The firmament reechoes—‘"Abelard!” 


77 


FOUR SONNETS ON PEACE 


I—NATURE IN REPOSE 

A heron dreaming lone in peaceful pool, 

Where twilight clouds are glassed in purple pile; 
A dewy sense of night in woodsey aisle, 

While, faint and far, from cloisters dim and cool, 
Come mellow chimes, like angel voice at Yule. 

Ten thousand whispered charms of peace beguile 
The cares of day, and hush with gentle wile 
Those strident voices that our souls befool. 

In sweet content, a homeward flock of sheep 
Lag lazily along yon country lane, 

Like phantoms on some far Lethean shore. 

Night comes and lulls her weary world to sleep:— 
Tucks in the covers, crooning low refrain, 

Then tiptoes out and softly shuts the door. 

II—SLEEP 

I put the day aside; prepare for sleep. 

I choose some book, and, filled with its delight, 

I’m mellow for the dreams of coming night. 

Delicious hints of slumber tinge the deep, 

Sweet silence, while the evening shadows creep 
In ever denser fold. Some gentle sprite 
Is tangling all my thoughts in merry spite, 

While lotos lanquors all my senses steep. 

Day’s tumult dies away to soft Amen, 

And leaves no ferment in my melting mind, 

As, like some craft afloat on seas profound, 

I drift away in blindfold chance, and then 
Some dream-mesh holds me close entwined; 

I gently sink away; in sleep I’m drowned. 

78 


Ill—WORLD PEACE 

O, purblind world! where selfishness doth reign, 
Distorting heaven’s dream with hell’s nightmare!— 
High heaven’s dream of peace, forever fair, 

With hell’s nightmare of war and its dark train. 

’Twas selfishness that prompted Tubal Cain, 

That scattered curses from Medusa’s hair,— 
Flung wide Pandora’s box to spread despair, 

And lost us Paradise for sordid gain. 

Heal selfishness—then comes Milennium! 

When sword shall rust in scabbard, all forgot, 

And men be cursed no more with war’s disease. 

Then earth shall teem with sweet life’s busy hum, 
And all the world, from throne to lowly cot, 
Confess his gentle rule—The Prince of Peace. 

IV—THE PEACE OF GOD 

The peace of God that passeth understanding— 
Allwhere it floats, in reach of every soul; 

A peace as of some vast stream’s tranquil roll, 
Where faith finds landing after golden landing, 

With life’s horizons evermore expanding, 

While love, by giving love, achieves its goal. 

’Tis like the power of earth’s magnetic pole, 

That holds all compass needles in commanding. 

The peace of God—it is the five-fold sea, 

Where dewdrop, tear drop, brook and river meet, 
And will of each is merged in will of all. 

O, all-engulfing peace, that makes us free, 

Yet binds us all in brotherhood complete— 

Let thy warm mantle on our shoulders fall. 

79 


TO GEORGE FOX COOK 


Immortalized in amber, here I hold 
A bright-winged hummer of some summer night. 
Our friendship, too, my Friend, has been a bright 
And joyous cruiser of the air on wings of gold, 
Since those far days when first your heart unrolled 
Its wealth of manhood to my happy sight. 

Rich fellowship we have, and deep delight, 

As ever sweeter pages to our eyes unfold. 

In this my sonnet I would thus imbed 

And save our friendship from decay of years. 
For in our friendship we have been the peers 
Of Jonathan and David. Mighty dead 
On high Gilboa! with you we dare to vie: 

We’ve tasted friendship, too, my friend and I. 


80 


TO MY MOTHER 


‘‘She hath done what she could,” the angels say 
Each night, and close the books whose pages shine 
With records of thy deeds, dear Mother mine. 

Thy faith by works is shown each golden day; 

And thy rich life, not lived for cheap display, 

Shall move by silent force of peace and light, 
Unseen by earth’s blind eyes; by faith, not sight; 
Shall pass through life to heaven’s eternal day. 

One day a mother-bird had left her brood, 

And spread her wings for the eternal flight. 

You came and hovered them; made them your own; 
You taught them song and perch, and gave them food; 
You led them with the lark to fields of light,— 

With much left to be told before God’s throne. 


81 


THE NORTH POLE 
(To Captain Peary, April 6 , 1909) 

Since Gaea sprang from Chaos, here alone 
Tve watched and yearned, a diuturnity, 

Across the snow, across the ice-bound sea, 

Whose frigid lips in dead’ning monotone, 

Repeat forevermore one dreary moan. 

I’ve watched till dynasties of gods grew old, 

Till hearts of burning stars were cinders cold,— 
Have yearned for Man to loose my virgin zone. 

At last he came; no more am I forlorn; 

His footprints are like kisses on my face! 

This day shall stand alone, like that rare morn 
On which the great god Mercury was born. 

Let Time now drag till doom in weary pace! 

This kiss eternity shall not erase. 


82 


EGO 


Why, stripped of joy, and with my heart burned out, 
Do I still fare adown life’s dusty road? 

Why not turn on the driver with his goad, 

And crash through walls that hedge me all without ? 
I marvel that my soul doth pule and doubt, 

And falter, yea, and palter with the tomb, 

As though its chill, and damp, and gloom 
Could deepen pains that swathe me here about. 

I am Somebody! That explains the case. 

I’d rather be a star that’s lost in space, 

That eye or telescope shall find no more,— 

I’d rather move forevermore alone, 

Howe’er my wand’ring soul might writhe and moan, 
Than lose this conscious EGO at the core. 


83 


MY ANCESTRY 


Through all this westward push, three hundred years. 
They’ve poured along that rushing human flood 
That furnishes the muscle, bone, and blood 
Of great Columbia’s band of volunteers. 

Long used to victory o’er foes and fears, 

And all that enervating devil’s brood 

That thrive on downy beds and dainty food, 

Oak-backed, storm-tried, stout-hearted pioneers. 

So, through their veins, there comes to me at last 
A blood enriched by sun, and earth, fresh air, 

And rhythmic rills, and ocean’s endless roar; 

Of prairie lands, and woods, and all the vast 
Of Freedom’s bloom and fruit from every shore. 
This makes me kin to all that’s good and fair. 


84 


MY BETROTHED 


When I was young, and lived in realms of air, 

I pledged myself to Life, and wreathed her head 
In garlands of the amaranth, and said 
The morning should forever bathe her hair 
In glory of the rising sun. “I swear 

That through all labyrinths my soul shall thread 
Her way/’ I said, “to thee, O, Life, and wed 
At last with thee, forever young and fair.” 

And right was I, though life be not the dream 
That once I saw through youth’s kaleidoscope. 
Thou changest as the ever-changing sea, 

But ever doth thy face diviner seem; 

And I have kept my vow, and claim my hope 
To wed, O, Life, Eternal Life, with thee. 


8s 


THE SACRIFICE 


I went up to the mount with breaking heart 
To sacrifice my soul's one child, my love. 

“Oh, God!” I cried; I could not look above. 
“Oh, God!” I prayed; and in my soul the smart 
Of rending roots that bled at every start; 

Of rending web that Love’s bright fingers wove. 
“Oh, God! Oh, God!” and evermore I strove 
To feel my will of his wise will a part. 

“Oh, God! I sacrifice my only child! 

It came from thee, and to thee shall return. 
My will with thy high will is reconciled.” 
Within I felt love’s altar fires burn 

All self away; and from the ashes came 
A deathless love, like heaven-transcending flame. 


86 


MY TWO PAY MASTERS 


One master pays me forty cents an hour. 

I thank him; take my coins and go my way 
Right glad that I can hand, at close of day, 

Four dollars, cream of brain and muscle power, 
Into the keep of her, the sweetest flower 
That ever rooted in this common clay. 

With these I halo love, and hold at bay 

The ravening wolves of want that skulk and cower. 

My other Master slips into my hand 
Those precious pennies each rf us must hold, 
When, at The Gate, the angel claims his toll. 

In that great Day these pennies shall expand 
Unto eternal values, wealth untold, 

While those four dollars slip from my control. 


87 


THE ALL-ENGULFING LOVE 


One time my father’s farm was all of space. 

“As big as Father’s farm!”—there fancy curbed. 
But soon my little circles were disturbed;— 
Horizons widened on and on apace, 

Till comets, yea, and light, lagged in the race,— 
Yea, till creation’s bounds at last reverbed 
With crying of my soul, still urged, perturbed, 

To find an end to this horizon chase. 

The stars and suns are incidental motes 
That float in the eternity’s vast span 
That still shall be when stars shall all remove. 
Eternity is but a thought that floats 
Upon the ocean of the soul of Man,— 

And, gulfing Man’s soul is this woman love. 


88 


THE MARATHON 


My heart has life and love; my limbs have youth. 

To rear! ye blood-hounds—Failure, Age, and Death! 
Away, ye niggards, skimping blood and breath! 
Hurrah! lungs drink the air; feet gulp, forsooth, 
The flying miles. Farewell, thou ancient sleuth, 
Whose eye is on each trail; who listeneth 
For every heart-beat, Time, whose false tongue saith 
The sands he pours are each a dragon’s tooth. 

Far winds the Marathon, with cliffs to climb, 

With gulfs to leap; with quick-sands, marsh, and 
flood. 

Off, every weight that keeps me from the fore! 

O, Life and Love, with all your train sublime! 

With you to stir youth’s whirlpools in my blood, 

I speed along the blue Aegean shore. 


89 


BE BOLD! 

“Be bold! Be bold ! and evermore be bold!” 

It is indeed “most strange that men should fear.” 
Place lance in rest, and foes will disappear, 

When down the lists the thundering clouds are rolled 
From hoof of stead by dauntless heart controlled. 
Damnation waits the man whom fears deform, 

While heaven yields to him who takes by storm, 

Ere vast eternity’s dread doom is tolled. 

Let who will people all the dark with ghosts; 

Wher’er I sleep the sky-built ladders rise. 

I scan the mountainside, and, lo, the hosts 
Of the Omnipotent break on my eyes. 

Be bold, faint heart, and plague of fears will cease. 
Where bold heart is, there nests the dove of peace. 


90 


ORPHEUS TO EURYDICE 

Where art thou, O my lost Eurydice? 

Without thee all the charms of earth are naught; 
The soul-expanding space for thee was wrought; 
The life-flushed hills and many-sounding sea 
Are merely settings to exhibit thee. 

My dumb, neglected harp lies there unstrung, 
And in my heart one mournful dirge is sung: 
“Eurydice! my lost Eurydice!” 

Thy garments blew against me from behind; 

Thy step was close; thy breath was on my hair ; 
I panted! fought to rule mine eyes! grew blind 
Of soul, forgot and turned, O, mad despair! 

To see the mists of Orcus gulfing thee, 

And with thee all but grief, Eurydice! 


9i 


DEATH AND RESURRECTION 
Two sonnets 

I—DEATH 

The vapors die from out the restless sea,— 

From turmoil, tumult, cold; from blinding storms 
That threaten death; they die into the forms 
Of beauty found in dew-drop on the lea, 

Of life that glows in leaf and fruit; in free 

And winged clouds, in rainbow pledge, in swarms 
Of joyous blooms that hail the sun, that warms 
The earth into full day, while shadows flee. 

Oh, glorious death! to be forevermore 
A messenger of life, and not of death! 

Oh, glorious death! to mingle with the breath 
Of all the incense that the spring may pour! 

To be a veil across the sunset drawn, 

Or wreathed about the golden brows of dawn. 


Q2 


II—RESURRECTION 


Since first a seed was ripened in its cell, 

Since first a seed fell into earth’s dark keep, 

And knew the biting chill of wintry sleep, 

Spring has returned and broken death’s dark spell, 
And tossed its drifts of bloom in every dell; 

Has come with resurrection’s glorious sweep, 

As moon draws every drop in all the deep, 

Or night doth myriad twinkling stars compel. 

“Watch me!” I think I hear God’s word of love; 
“See how I bury this reluctant seed 
In darksome bosom of the greedy grave. 

If I can make its leaves and petals wave 
In new and radiant life, does it not prove 
That I can resurrect a man at need?” 


93 


MY SHIP CAME IN 


The wharf I tramped for lo these many years, 

In watching for my ship to climb the verge, 

And plow its way to me through roaring surge, 
With cargo rich to pay up all arrears, 

And rank me safe for aye among the peers. 

One sunset, lo! a bark whose full sails urge 
Across those waves that purpling sunbeams purge; 
And straight to where I stand the pilot steers. 

I mount the plank with self-important stride, 

And wave to those on shore with deep content. 

I walk my deck, exult, breathe victory’s breath. 

Then, lo! from fading shores behind, I ride 

To brightening shores whereon my eyes are bent. 
“Ho! Pilot, say—what haven’s this?” “ ’Tis 
Death!” 


94 


AFTER DEATH 


What was I in that busy work-day world ? 

I was a cloud about the brows of dawn, 

A breath of life to temples worn and wan ; 

I was the perfume in the rosebud furled, 

A cooling wave o’er sun-kissed pebbles purled, 
An echo of sweet voices long since gone; 

I was the song that soothed the dying swan, 
The dancing life in every young heart whirled. 

I learned the nack of living all of life; 

I turned the body’s loss to spirit’s gain. 

I steadily avoided place and pelf. 

I lived and loved, and had no time for strife. 

I leaned hard on the hand that smote in pain, 
And moved forevermore away from self. 


95 


TO MY PIPE 

The curling clouds, like friendly genii, 

Float dreamily in many a graceful fold,— 

Dispart, unite, build mountains, windy wold, 

Suggest still waterfalls, the sea, the sky, 

And misty dawns with larks and thrushes nigh. 
Sweet reveries enwrap me: stories old 
Of Red Man in his wigwam, cunning, bold, 

Of Black Man singing where his loved ones lie. 

The fire burns low, and midnight lends its charm, 

A restful charm that Letheward invites. 

Life is no more a garment rent and seamed; 

A halo, live an angel’s fending arm, 

Or like the shining shields of Arthur’s knights, 
Surrounds me here. Heigh-ho! I slept and dreamed. 


96 


THERE’S BUT ONE MORNING FOR THE 
ROSE OF LIFE 

You brushed the dew from off a rose this morn; 
This day shall know that beaded work no more. 
Tomorrow ’twill be there again; a score 
Of happy neighbors in the rustling corn 
Will add their beauty to the beauty shorn 
On yesterday; but that fine touch it wore, 

As lips wear their first kiss,—its life is o’er, 

And never shall that beauty be re-born. 

There’s but one morning for the rose of life, 

O maiden fair! O youth with burning heart! 

And sweet will be that rose, and sweet life’s day, 
If far into the noon the dew be rife 
On all those glowing petals; but no art 
Can bring it back, when once ’tis brushed away. 


97 


“THE BLUES” 

My Mother’s blue eyes! blue sky, blue Flag, blue sea! 
“The blues?” O, fair blue sea, O, Bonny Blue 
Flag! 

World-clasping Blue, with edge beyond the crag 
Where morning first her coming paints in glee! 

All blues are fair and beautiful to me. 

I cannot get “the blues.” I cannot drag 
My spirit in the dust. Like some proud stag 
That spurns the rocks, leaps many a fallen tree, 

Swims lakes, outruns the wind, calls danger friend; 

So stands my soul on threshold of each day, 

And welcomes whate’er God sees fit to send. 

My faith isGod lets nothing go astray. 

O, who will wrap himself in clouds of gloom, 

When sun enough will make the granite bloom? 


98 


SISYPHUS 


When first I heaved this boulder up of old, 

I laughed whene’er it, baffling all my skill, 

Careened, escaped my clutch, and crashed down hill 
With echoing plunge. Aye unperturbed I rolled 
It up again. My heart was not yet cold; 

My thews were young, my hopes of iris sheen. 

I heaved and tugged in joyous faith serene 
That o’er the crest I yet would see it bowled. 

But! yonder in the vale my boulder lies. 

My heart is under it. Yet, once again 
I gird me for the goal. My soul defies 
Defeat! I drag my burden from the fen 
Of submerged hopes, and now once more I rise 
Anear the rim. My boulder sways, and then— 


99 


SHEPHERDING THE FOLD 
(As Rector of Trinity Parish, Emmetsburg, Iowa.) 

Each night my heart goes shepherding the fold, 

And tucks the tired flock up, one by one, 

For darkling hours that wait the morning sun; 
With peace of God I shelter young and old, 

And leave no stray neglected in the cold. 

With loving care this nightly task is done, 

While through my prayers each name is fondly run : 
As beads by holy men are softly told. 

And then, sometimes, as in far Galilee, 

I, too, hear sudden whir of angel wings, 

While glorias from heavenly choir float down. 
Through vistas bright, that guiding star I see, 

While soul within me leaps and sings, 

And on my head I feel the circling crown. 


ioo 


OCTOBER PEACE 


No peace of June like this October peace: 

The year’s best wine saved up until this last. 
The storm and stress of spring is overpast, 
And bulging bins tell tales of ripe increase. 

In every hillside grove the Golden Fleece 

Hangs with its wealth of color richly massed, 
While purple, scarlet, yellow, in contrast, 
Illuminate this Nature’s masterpiece. 

My soul lies fallow to these peaceful skies, 

And mixes with the landscape’s quiet brown, 
Where summer’s fruitage ripens to the Fall. 
The season floods me through my drinking eyes, 
Till in its glories all old sorrows drown, 

And I surrender: sweet October’s thrall. 


IOI 


TAPESTRIES 

No man may look upon Jehovah’s face 
And live. Wherefore Jehovah weaves the screen 
Of nature: landscape rich in boskage green, 

The labyrinthine deeps of starry space,— 
Kaleidoscopic wonder-world, to trace 

Suggestions of the Mind that works unseen, 
Behind these tapestries of Man’s demesne, 
Where looms of God their marvels weave apace. 

What mystic runes are on this puzzled page! 

What hinted meanings hidden in each line! 

All harmonies, all raptures of sweet sound, 
Dissolving views in stately equipage— 

Just patterns wherein God his works divine 
Suggests to Man, in all their deeps profound. 


102 


HAWTHORNE 


A lonely soul of other days and race; 

A dweller in the dim, unhappy past; 

A dreamer of weird dreams whose phantoms cast 
Cold shadows overthwart the world’s gray face; 
A builder with a magic touch and grace 
As delicate as frost-work; unsurpassed 
In turning search-lights on the starless vast 
Of pain, then setting all in time and space. 

Man’s conscience was to him a bleating lamb; 
Man’s soul a wandering bird in bleakest storm. 
And yet, to keenest eye, there ever swam, 

In mystic dusk above, a heavenly form, 

That waved aside life’s painful sham, 

And showed the homing dove, safe, safe, and warm. 


103 


TO JOHN BURROUGHS 


O, rich in all the happy woodland lore! 

Thou hast a friend in every leafy bay 
To lure thee from the cares of life away, 

And touch thee with their power to restore. 

The cloud of witnesses that sing and soar, 

That nest, and chirp, and twitter all the day, 

They lilt their love from every tilting spray 
To make thy name remembered evermore. 

A native in “The land of rustling wings,” 

Thy wholesome spirit comes to be a part 
Of all that woos us from the muggy mart, 

And draws us to the waiting wood, where clings 
A magic in the clustering leaves, where steals 
That Forest-Soul that charms, and soothes, and heals. 


104 


TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 


Small praise for lips of mine to call thee great: 

I have no breath to fill fame’s noisy horn, 

No laurel wreath thy temples to adorn, 

Nor skill to read the Sibyl leaves of fate. 

But, passing critic, priest, and potentate, 

I’m at the front, when lovers fall in line. 

I touch thy lip with love’s Amrita fine, 

And, kneeling here, I call the consecrate. 

Love is the wand reveals the hidden wells; 

Love is the crucible where gold is tried; 

Love’s ear hears what no priest is ever told. 

For laurel I bring love’s sweet immortelles, 

And bind these brows my love has glorified. 

O Bard! to do thee homage, love doth make me 
bold. 


105 


TO DANIEL SYLVESTER TUTTLE 

Presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church. 

Died April 17, 1923 

There never yet was laid a corner-stone, 

But some great heart lay throbbing under it. 

No Churchman ever did himself acquit, 

And bring the waiting people to their own, 

But first his brain must ache, his spirit groan. 

His torch must at God’s altar fires be lit, 

His thoughts with God’s own thoughts be interknit, 

If he would lift the Holy Church up to God’s throne. 

Thy clergy come with “Laurel dipped in wine, 

And lay it thrice upon that favored lip,” 

That speaks the word of sempiternal truth. 

’Tis thine own heart’s blood doth incarnadine 
The cornerstone of our blest fellowship, 

And pledge eternal life, immortal youth. 


106 


ALEXANDER HAMILTON 

(July 12, 1904) 

Thou framer of the mighty sills of State, 

And builder of our commerce all abroad, 

A century has added only laud 
Unto thy teeming mind that, in debate, 

Did conquer difficulties—kill, create,— 

Did meet and throw, with toughest wrestling thews 
All foes of federal government; did fuse 
All forces; made them move as under fate. 

Today we lay a wreath upon thy tomb, 

And rank thee first of those who wrought in gloom 
To bring our country to this day of power, 

And send it spinning on each glorious hour, 

In those prophetic forms that in the womb 
Of thy gigantic brain took shape and flower. 


107 


ABRAHAM LINCOLN 


How beautiful upon the hills, thy feet, 

O, bringer of glad tidings to the slave! 

Thy mighty soul transcends the blighting grave, 
And leads the ranks of those who found it sweet 
To burn their hearts out in life’s furnace-heat 
To light their fellow men,—who dared to brave 
The blatent tongues that wag, the mobs that rave, 
When some path-finder leaves the ancient beat. 

How beautiful thy feet upon the hills, 

Thy feet that leave the rocky slopes aglow! 
Beholding thee, the lowliest nature thrills, 

The loftiest feels, within, God’s image grow:— 
Beneath thee freedom’s everlasting sills, 

And over thee the heaven-encircling bow. 


108 


SHELLEY 


Thou soul-entrancing orb of mystic birth, 

With heart of light that leaves a burning wake/— 
Who knows thy whence?—the way thy soul doth 
take? 

Parabola, whose course is guessed from earth, 

As men, astonished, glimpse thy glittering girth 
About the universe of thought and sense 
And feeling, flashing out to deeps intense 
And vastest sweep of love and joy and mirth. 

Thou poet of the bright immensities! 

With room for comets trailing light, while stars, 
That Alcor darkens to, way-mark the skies 
With shining guides for him who leaps the bars, 

And dares, like thee, abysmal plunges broad 
Through chaos unto starlit peace with God. 














MISCELLANEOUS 




RIZPAH 

(2 Samuel xxi.) 

There is a depth of misery that still 
Outrivals Sheol. I am in that depth. 

Souls damned are conscious of a retribution 
Earned, that makes Gehenna’s pain seem just. 

I have not sinned. I loved God with a love 
That mounted unto heaven’s highest vault. 

I loved the very vipers that I feared, 

Because they came from God’s creating hand. 

And Saul, oh, mighty Saul! whose arm was like 
The girdle Gabriel gave to Eve,—how I 
Loved Saul! and God gave Saul; therefore my love 
Encompassed God. And yet, back on these lips 
That sung his praise awake, and e’en in sleep 
Did move in dreams of praise,—back on these lips 
His hand smote harshly with a blighting curse. 
That hand should hold a shield before my breast; 
Should fend the fiery darts that pierce my soul, 
And burn with mad’ning sting, until I hurl 
My bleating, broken life into the void, 

And pray that it may sink to darkest deep 
Of black Oblivion, and cease to be. 

Go mad ? I could; but who would guard my dead 
Oh! I could curse until my breath would smite 
The oaks in glorious Carmel, where I walked 
113 


RIZPAH 


114 

With Saul one summer night, and heard the sea, 

And knew the tides that heaved in my own heart 
Were vaster yet. I looked up to the wide 
Profound with twinkling way-marks set 
Along the shining path that Enoch went, 

And knew that my own love should live and shine, 
W r hen God had thrust those wondrous worlds all back 
Into the void. No, no! I have not cursed. 

The heart where love has dwelt shall never curse. 

The lips that love has sealed shall never curse. 

I stand here naked of all fending shields 

And take the rod. Death knows no wretch like me. 

The four winds strike whatever house holds love 

Of mine; a Babel smites whatever lip 

Would comfort me. I am a harvest-field 

With all my wealth of grain burned black by rain 

Of fire that fell from yonder sky. I am 

The Eden smitten by the curse of God, 

An Eden where sweet love alone has dwelt. 

I do not understand the ways of God, 

But weaklings are not tossed and tested thus. 

I fold my torture close as sign that I 
Am counted worthy in the eyes of God. 

And, O, my Saul! my best beloved Saul! 

Wherever God have set thy dwelling-place, 

My love shall press forever on that door. 

As waters lean their weight against some dyke 
That holds its thwarting arm across the way, 

Day in, day out, while countless ages drag 
Through weary time; and yet no smallest wink 


RIZPAH 


1 15 

Of time do all those waters fail to keep 
Their vigil,—pressing, silent, constant, sure, 

Until some weary prop give way, and drops 
Become a trickling rill, that, while men sleep, 

Gnaws silently, till all the silent wrath, 

The thwarted passion of a hundred years, 

Comes sweeping through to be forever free; 

So I, whene’er the barriers shall break 
That hide thy face from me, my waiting love 
Shall leap into the breach. Then let the blows, 

The crushing blows that shall annihilate 

All yon bright worlds, oh! let them fall where’er 

They will; I’ll keep fast hold of thee through all. 

I drain my cup, and gaze athwart its rim 
At something I see hidden in God’s face; 

And by some mystic sign my soul doth know 

That he is cleansing me so as by fire 

For some resplendent dawn of love and hope— 

For some sweet lifting of this murky veil, 

Behind which hides his face and Saul’s. O, babes 
Of mine! ’tis this that nerves my weary arm; 

’Tis this that lifts me from the black abyss, 

And smites pain on the brow with fine contempt. 

I know that my Redeemer liveth; yea, 

Though worms destroy this body, yet shall I, 

In some vast life, behold Jehovah’s face; 

Shall meet you there, sometime, my babes—and Saul. 
And I shall steep my famished soul in love. 

Just as the desert, parched through centuries, 

Can drink the rain as no oasis can, 


ii6 


RIZPAH 


Because each grain of sand cries out for rain; 

So shall my soul drink in more life than all 
Save One who yet shall die to purchase life 
For men. Tis this that shelters me who stands 
Here shelterless, through barley harvest till 
The autumn rain. ’Tis this that makes me brave 
To meet attacking eagles that would tear 
The sacred bodies of my babies here. 

See! where the cruel claws of that she wolf 
Tore at this breast where lay my baby’s face; 

And where thy head has rested, too, my Saul. 

Triumphant over all that pain can bring, 

From lowest depth to highest height, I mount,— 
To light, and life, and love, and God, and thee. 

As some exhaustless fountain feeds the sun, 

Until it melts the frosts and drives away 
The storms of winter, filling Abib’s lap 
With store of ripening corn; so comes a wave, 

A tide of sun through all the frozen vales 
Of my storm-beaten life, and from me falls, 

Like last year leaves, when buds begin to start, 
My sorrow with its bitter sting of death. 

Lo! in the East a glorious star! My eyes 
Fill with its light. A spirit sweet exhales 
From sea, and sky, and earth, enwrapping me. 

O, holy Eastern Star! it is thy light 
That soothes the torture in my aching heart. 

God’s hand, in smiting me, smote still in love. 

His banner over me is love. I’ve kept 


RIZPAH 


My steadfast watch about my dead, until 
There’s naught to lure the raven and the wolf; 
The eagles trouble me no more. So, here, 

Where I have fought and conquered all that came, 
I’ll lay me down and sleep. Did I not hear 
Young David sing before my Saul, one glorious 
Night,—“He giveth his beloved sleep”? 


THE TUMALUM 


Over me the maiden’s bower 
Banks its cloud of curly balls 
On a thorn from whose leaf-twilight 
Comes the catbird’s plaintive calls. 

O, delicious mountain breezes, 

Sweet with breath of fir and pine! 
How you bathe my lungs and thrill me 
Like a draught of rare old wine! 
And I take deep inspirations 
Till in sleep my senses numb 
By the purring of the waters 
Of the drowsy Tumalum. 

Work is good, and I’m companion 
To the reaper and the plow; 

I’ve no quarrel with the Scripture 
On the sweating of the brow; 

But on Sunday when the horses 
Are all resting in the shade, 

Then I slip off to the river, 

And I strip my feet and wade; 

Or I stretch beneath the alders 
While I listen to the hum 
Of the restful, rumpled, ripples 
Of the drowsy Tumalum. 

118 


THE TUMALUM 


Far away in hazy distance 
Of October’s purple pall, 

Where the clouds suggest the gateway 
Of some vast eternal hall, 

There I float, and trail my body 
Like an anchor here below; 

There I see what mortals see not, 

And know what immortals know; 
For I’m sleeping, and I’m dreaming, 
Lulled to slumber by the hum 
Of the lazy liquid laughter 
Of the drowsy Tumalum. 

Yes, I’m sleeping, and I’m dreaming 
Of the maiden that I love: 

She with soul of mounting eagle 
And the sweetness of the dove. 

Come to me, my mountain maiden, 
Light of heaven in your eyes; 

Wake me with your precious kisses 
To the living far surprise. 

Sit by me and drink the beauty 
Of Life’s happy, busy hum, 

As our spirits float together 
On the drowsy Tumalum. 


MY MOUNTAIN MAID 
To E. M. C. 

O, my sweetheart is a mountain maid 

With a laugh like the lilt of a rippling rill, 

And a cheek like the lily that blooms in the shade 
Of the alders back of the old saw-mill. 

Her eyes mind me of the luminous dark 

On June midnights when the moon is fair,— 
Alert as a deer to the hunter’s hark, 

And deep as the wells of the Alcantare. 

Her bosom is like the sun-kissed snows; 

Her laughter is like the song of the thrush; 

And all about her path there goes 

A peace like the peace of the twilight hush. 

When she meets me in the dewy dawn, 

Her footfall makes my heart beat glad, 

As light as the tread of the listening fawn, 

Or the whispering feet of an Oread. 

The harebells lean to touch her gown; 

The hummingbird turns his burning throat; 

The morning sets his glorious crown 
On her raven locks that ripple and float 
120 


MY MOUNTAIN MAID 


121 


Like the rumpling hair of a water sprite, 

Or the wimpling waves that braid the sun 

In a thousand vanishing forms of light 
That dance on the pebbles, and glance and run 

Over sands of beryl and tourmaline. 

The mountain loves her joyous song; 

The sky bends down with a smile serene, 

And Nature attends her all day long. 

O, my sweetheart is a mountain maid,— 

And we sit here on the canon’s rim, 

While the purple petals of the daylight fade, 
And the rugged rocks grow soft and dim; 

And love creeps up from the canon deep, 

And love yearns down from the peaks above, 

And all the little wings folding for sleep 
Are whispering mystical words of love. 


THE SONG OF THE SICKLE 


“Tickle, tickle, tickle,” 

Hums the mower’s dewy sickle 
In the grass. 

Tickle-tops and timothy, 

Meadow rue and clover, 

Feel a sudden tremor, 

Bow, and topple over, 

As they feel the tickle 
Of the mower’s gliding sickle, 

Ever laughing through the meadows like a merry 
county lass. 

“Tickle, tickle, tickle,” 

Where the lights and shadows trickle 
Through the green. 

Meadow-lark and bobolink 
Pouring molten beauty 
For an aureole to crown 
Homely toil and duty, 

While the glinting sickle, 

With its “tickle, tickle, tickle,” 

Misses sundry little blossoms where the bees will come 
and glean. 

“Tickle, tickle, tickle,” 

Heats of summer throb and prickle, 

Full of life. 


122 


THE SONG OF THE SICKLE 


12 3 


Steady tramp the sturdy bays, 

Gearing smoothly gliding; 

Sleepy driver nods and dreams 
From the drowsy riding, 

While the glancing sickle, 

With a tickle, tickle, tickle, 

Sings a song of love and gladness to the farmer’s busy 
wife. 


“Tickle, tickle, tickle,” 

Oh! the dreams of youth are fickle 
As a cloud; 

Changing as the changing stream, 

Or the changing shadows, 

Come and gone, and here and there, 

On the changing meadows, 

Till the tickle, tickle, tickle, 

Of death’s ever busy sickle 
Lays us all away forever in a never-changing shroud. 


IN BOHEMIA 


In Bohemia, peaceful Bohemia, 

O, there are no clocks and watches; 
Time is reckoned by the notches 
On a cloud, 

In Bohemia. 

In Bohemia, festive Bohemia, 

Lunch is spread on fragrant grasses, 
And a sunbeam laughs and passes 
O’er the plate, 

In Bohemia. 

In Bohemia, joyful Bohemia, 

Cups and spoons are purple clam-shells, 
Washed by dimpled, laughing damsels 
By a brook 

In Bohemia. 

In Bohemia, dreamy Bohemia, 

Here and yon a happy loafer;— 

Ne’er a gold-clawed human gopher 
Piling dirt 

In Bohemia. 

124 


IN BOHEMIA 


125 


In Bohemia, care-free Bohemia, 
Everywhere are jolly, vagrant 
Sybarites, who breathe the fragrant 
Breath of life, 

In Bohemia. 


ARCADEE 


I was born in Arcadee; 

And every leaf on every tree 
Has a secret word to say 
To my ear, where’er I stray. 

I was born in Arcadee, 

And I’ve stayed there, happy me. 

The little realm of Arcadee 
Is just like this world you see; 
Only,—there the native born 
Are immune to care and scorn. 
Every discord is a glee 
To those born in Arcadee. 

They have storms in Arcadee— 
Summer, winter, by decree; 

But the natives only know 
Just the treasures of the snow. 
Heart of light is plain to me 
In every storm of Arcadee. 

He that’s born in Arcadee 
Holds the golden sesame; 

In his footprint there is seen 
126 


ARCADEE 


127 


Crystal fount of Hippocrene. 

All the world shall bend the knee 
To those born in Arcadee. 

Better than to own the sea— 
Being bom in Arcadee. 

To their Christ-anointed eyes 
Every vale is Paradise. 

I was born in Arcadee, 

And Eve stayed there, happy me 




SNOWING 


Feathering the willows, 
Drifting in the hedges, 
Piling downy pillows 
On the mountain ledges, 

Bordering the streamlet 
Where the sedges shiver, 
Capturing a dreamlet 
For the drowsy river; 

Weaving shrouds of ermine 
For the perished roses 
Soft as couch of merman 
When the deep reposes; 

Speaking in a whisper 
Mystical and olden, 
Silver-throated lisper 
With a language golden; 

Smoothing out the wrinkles 
In the cemetery, 
Laughing where the tinkles 
Of the bells are merry; 

128 


SNOWING 


129 


Dancing like a fairy,— 
Vanishing, returning, 

Till the spirits airy 

Set the woods a-yearning. 


A DAY IN JUNE 

All day long the bobolink 
Has tinkled his golden chain, 

With a tinkle-tump-tink of each echoing link, 
Like the musical trinkle of rain, 

Or like the rimple of fairy feet 
Dancing on moon-kissed lawn, 

Shaking the silvery dewdrop sweet 
From the lips of a rose at dawn. 

All day long the elfish winds 

Have rumpled the meadow’s hair; 

The spirit of Puck a sly net spins 
In rollicking laughter there. 

And ever the witching lips of June 
Have whispered a word in my ear; 

And taught me to read the mystical rune 
That’s writ in the water here. 

And who has been the plenipo 
To tip me the wily wink: 

What South wind says, how violets grow? 
That poet, the Bobolink. 

130 


SPRING 


The bees are droning dreamily in pear and apple 
bloom; 

The gossamers are drifting on in fluffy flakes of 
spume. 

O, lazy, hazy, afternoon, replete with life and love! 

O, dreamy, creamy clouds that float like mystic isles 
above! 

O, gentle opal April skies, just wide enough for soul, 

By hunting through this finite space, to guess the 
mighty whole! 

I lean against the friendly bark of this benignant oak, 

That thrice has heard the century clock peal its solemn 
stroke; 

I feel its prophecies of life transfused into my blood, 

And like the forces in its trunk that crowd in limb 
and bud, 

I sense the pent-up potencies demanding to be freed 

In color and aroma, and the verities of deed. 

I answer to the climbing sap; I heed the aching earth 

That travails since creation in the agonies of birth; 

I put my hand unto the plow, and keep my eyes ahead; 

I leave the dead to lag behind and put away their dead. 

I hear the bluebird’s tirly-wirly, hear the flicker’s trill; 

I hear the cricket in the grass, the heifer on the hill. 


SPRING 


132 

The bass has picked a spawning place; the snake is in 
the sun; 

And everywhere the nimble feet of life begin to run; 
And everywhere I turn my eye—to sky, or sea, or sod, 
I read a poem ending with— 

The signature of God. 


THE MAIDEN SPRING 

The sweet, warm lips of early spring 
Come full upon my own; 

They softly press and fondly cling 
Like lips that I have known. 

Her garments touch me here and there, 
By wanton breezes stirred; 

My forehead feels her rippling hair, 

Like plume of passing bird. 

Her budding breasts thrill all the dawn, 
Through vapors thinly laced; 

And by the swelling curves of lawn, 
Her amorous limbs are traced. 

The sun portrays her beaming face 
On every waking hill ; 

Her long hair curls a merry race 
With mosses in the rill. 

Her sash flies gleaming through the wood, 
Like flash of oriole; 

And sweet as laugh of maidenhood— 
Her merry barcarole. 

133 


134 


THE MAIDEN SPRING 


All birds and blossoms by the way 
Are knights of her demesne:— 
The season's jubilant array 
To greet the sylvan queen. 


THE THORN IS IN BLOOM 


The thorn is in bloom and the thrush is here, 
And over me coos a dove; 

By this I know it is time of year 
For hearts to fall in love. 

O, yes, I know the thrush will go, 

The dove will cease to coo; 

But love in loveliness will grow 
Forever for me and you. 

And you, my Love, will catch the note 
Of dove and jubilant thrush, 

And pour to me from happy throat 
Far yon in eternity’s hush. 

And I will bless this glorious morn 
That brought your love to me, 

With song of thrush and bloom of thorn 
And pledge of eternity. 


135 


AFTER AUTOLYCUS 


Spring has come with a hop, skip, and jump, 
With, heigh! the young hearts, how they beat! 
The catbird lilts in the lilac clump, 

And, O, the woodland breath is sweet! 

The primrose nods to the river’s brink, 

With, heigh! the brown thrush, how he pours! 
The tiny fairy glasses clink 

To the God that rules in the Out-of-doors. 

The brooklet gurgles its delight, 

With, heigh! with heigh! the sea and the sky! 
The meadow calls, the woods invite; 

For Spring, sweet maid, is passing by. 


136 


MY PHILOSOPHY 

A pessimist? No, Sir, not I. 

An optomist? not I, no, no! 

I do not follow either cry:— 

“The foe is weak!” “Too strong the foe!” 

The pessimist reports, “A host!” 

Off go ten thousand home-robbed men, 
Chased by imaginary ghost, 

Then limping steal to camp again. 

The optometrist reports, “They flee 
From shadows their own fancies cast!” 
And lo! the foe he would not see 
Has captured him and his at last. 

The battle-winner, he reports 
The foe’s conditions as they are. 

He numbers troops, examines forts, 

And learns the background of his war. 

He learns his men; develops them;— 

Their hearts, their bodies, souls, and brains, 
Till contact with his garment’s hem 
Puts life and mettle in their veins. 

i37 


MY PHILOSOPHY 


Accepter am I; I would learn 
What sort of stuff I work withal; 
Would know all matters that concern 
Escaping failure’s fatal pall. 

So I accept my lump of clay; 

I learn its potency, its lack; 

And then I mould as best I may, 
And without murmur hand it back. 


THE HEART KNOWETH ITS OWN 
BITTERNESS 

Prov. 14: 10 

Yea, gall is sweet to what the heart 
In bitterest moment knows; 

The rankling barb of poisoned dart 
Is rapture to its throes. 

The most our nearest friend can do 
Is but to dimly guess: 

Heart’s labyrinth is without clew; 

It knoweth its own bitterness. 


139 


IMMORTALITY 
Ecc. io: i 


A fly in the ointment! 

Fortunate fly: 

By God’s own appointment 
Never to die. 

A fly in the ointment! 

Pity him not: 

Immortal annointment 
In that little pot. 


140 


O GOD, BE BOUNTIFUL TO ME 


O God, be bountiful to me! 

“Be pitiful,” I oft have prayed,— 

In time of need have cried for aid; 

But now I ask large things of thee: 

O God, be bountiful to me! 

O God, be bountiful to me! 

Why should I shame thy countless store 
By asking crumbs from off the floor? 
As son, I ask a legacy. 

O God, be bountiful to me! 

O God, be bountiful to me! 

As ravens cry for carrion flesh, 

Thy children cry for toys and trash; 

I prove my vast belief in thee: 

O God, be bountiful to me! 

O God, be bountiful to me! 

Not as a slave, I kneel and pray; 

Not as a beggar by the way: 

A kingdom here I ask of thee: 

O God, be bountiful to me. 


‘‘THE MINUTE MAN” 


I’m ready for life; 

I welcome the bugle that calls to the strife; 

I hear the guns boom, and I push for the van; 
God’s wanting a man, 

And I’m ready for life. 

I’m ready for death; 

I’ll be near the flag when I take my last breath; 
This body must fall: it shall fall in the van! 

I kneel to God’s plan, 

And I’m ready for death. 


142 


TRANSFIGURATION 


The shadows deepen 
On the hill; 

I hear one lonely 
Whippoorwill. 

The purring leaves, 

The breathing herds, 

The hushing croon 
Of brooding birds, 

The drowsy hum 
Of insect flight, 

The downy footfall 
Of the night, 

Are breathing secrets 
In my ear: 

They tell me that 
Morpheus is near; 

They tell me thou 
Art coming soon 

With all thy train, 

O, summer moon. 
i43 


144 


TRANSFIGURATION 


A dreamy peace 
Swims in my brain, 

Like breath of woodland 
After rain. 

My soul’s at rest, 
Hushed on the sea 

Of undisturbed 
Tranquillity; 

The knotty problems 
Of the day, 

Melt into mist, 

And fade away. 

Time’s roaring wheels 
No longer jar; 

I hear the dream-bells 
From afar. 

My eye-lids droop; 

All burdens lift; 

My hands relax; 

My soul’s adrift. 

Dream crowds on dream, 
While Love and Hope 

Shift the bright 
Kaleidoscope. 

I lose my way, 

And grope and guess, 


TRANSFIGURATION 


145 


In slumber's mazy 
Wilderness; 

Or float on Lethe's 
Bosom deep, 

A wanderer in 
The land of sleep. 


LIFE 


I have lived the full life of the free; 

I have not worn the yoke of the world; 

I have been a white-cap on the sea; 

In the tornado’s heart I have whirled. 

I’ve accepted myself and my load; 

I have moved neither lag nor in haste; 

I have gathered what grew by the road, 

And life has been sweet to my taste. 

I have not allowed God to compel; 

For my heart has kept pace with his might. 

God sends every coward to hell; 

So I have not cringed in his sight. 

To hell goes the soul without life; 

So I drink at Life’s springs, breathe Life’s air 
I fight on her side in all strife; 

Her badge and her password I bear. 

I have cast my soul’s burdens on none; 

I have called upon no man for aid; 

From the stuff that God gave me, I’ve spun 
The creed I have lived unafraid. 

146 


LIFE 


147 


I have captured that vessel of gold, 

That clings at the rainbow’s end; 

Its treasures I have and I hold; 

And they grow, as I lavishly spend. 

And when the Great Judge shall command 
My life and its deeds to be sieved, 

I’ll advance with my lifted right hand, 
And answer him—“Lord, I have lived.” 


ALGOMAR 

In the following mystic song, I myself coined both the 
words, Algomar and Balmoree. Later I saw Algomar in a 
poem by “Ironquill,” given as the name of a star. I wrote 
asking him where he ran across the word, and he replied 
that it was his own coining. 

O, hast thou e’er dreamed of Algomar, 

Sweet Algomar by the Balmoree? 

Its forests and fountains and palaces are 
All built in the cloud, and are all for thee. 

The gardens all bloom with thy hopes and thy dreams; 

The fountains sing ever the song of thy heart; 

The palaces fair—each happy hall gleams 
With likeness of thee—the fruit of thine art. 

The angels may wander with wondering eyes, 

And long to discover this mystical realm, 

That has a legation in Paradise, 

An ambassador under each oak and elm; 

But never an angel knows Algomar, 

And never they sit by the Balmoree; 

The king of that realm is an avatar, 

And the kingdom is locked with a mystical key. 


148 


ALGOMAR 


149 


O, an unseen hand plays a zither sweet, 

With the haunting thrills of a long-lost rune; 

Those words no mortal may repeat, 

And they weave the soul in a soft cocoon. 

By the Balmoree one waits thee there,— 

And, yearning, offers a golden bowl, 

To touch thy lips with Amrita rare— 

Supernal love for the thirsty soul. 

O, haste thee to find sweet Algomar— 

To meet one there by the Balmoree; 

The forests and fountains and palaces are 
Empty of all when empty of thee. 


I GO, I GO 


What’s peace? To emanate unvext. 

What’s rest? Unhindered to evolve. 
What’s now irks not, but aye what’s next 
The problem sought is one to solve. 

I dare not cast my eye to rear; 

Before me fleets the luring bow; 

To cease to move—my only fear; 

To stand is death. 

I go, I go. 

I welcome struggles cowards shun. 

What matter fame and clink of gold? 
I’m girt for one unending run; 

No siren song my course may hold. 
“Speed on! Speed on!” I hear a cry. 

I heed; and whether soft stars glow, 

Or ragged lightnings rend the sky, 

With face to front, 

I go, I go. 

Empires are born, and kings are crowned 
On battlefields strown thick with dead. 
My captain’s voice is welcome sound; 

The Rainbow Bridge I may not tread; 

Its radiant floor not for my feet; 

150 


I GO, I GO 


IS* 


With Thor I dare the gulfs below; 

Like him to tread fair Asgard’c street 
With conquering heart, 

I go, I go. 

I go to still expanding fields, 

To boundless skies and visions broad; 

I go to break all bars and seals, 

To span the Vast, to fathom God. 

I go to ever younger youth;— 

To pierce, and solve, and see, and know. 

With gates of soul set wide to Truth, 

And fear dethroned, 

I go, I go. 

I go from human to divine, 

From clouded eye to vision clear; 

I go to make all beauty mine,— 

From circle cramped to angel sphere. 

Farewell the worm; farewell the clod! 
However far, however slow, 

Along yon starry way to God 
On lengthening wing, 

I go, I go. 


APOLLO 


Dare I? No, I dare not; 

And yet, I will dare! 

I’ll pour, and I’ll spare not 
The wine of my heart in thy temple, Apollo. 

Here in these grasses moves thy tuneful breath, 

In thrills so low my spirit listeneth. 

And now the phorminx down the hollow 
Echoes wildly, and I follow, 

Heart and soul 
At thy control, 

Mad to be with thee, my sweet voiced Apollo. 

Am I too bold? 

My dread whispers—“Yes.” 

But I’ll be bold, 

And I’ll not stop to guess 
What key will admit to thy temple, Apollo. 

I grasp at the bolts with hands that hold fast; 

And whatever my fate, I’ll be found here at last; 

For impelling this clod 
Is the will of a god, 

That will not be locked out, or left dead on the sod. 


152 


EASTER 


Oh! black was the night when my Lord was betrayed, 
And darker the day when He lay in the tomb— 
The gangs of Gehenna ’gainst Heaven arrayed, 

The world plunged in chaos of horror and gloom. 

We trusted ’twas He whose right arm should redeem 
Poor Israel, crouching in sackcloth and tears. 

We looked that the sword and the banner should gleam 
Victorious over Rome’s insolent spears. 

We thought to have seen, as Gehazi of old, 

The hosts of Jehovah with chariots of flame— 

A burning tornado relentlessly rolled 
Against every foe of fair Israel’s name. 

When my Lord on the Cross gave that anguishing cry, 
A dart struck at life, as when sweet Eden fell; 

A shudder ran cold through the earth and the sky; 
There was sorrow in Heaven and triumph in hell. 

Then Omnipotent Power spoke down from the Throne; 

An answering light shot aloft from the grave, 

As forth from the clutches of cerement and stone, 
Came Jesus, triumphant and mighty to save. 

Oh, bright was the dawn when my Saviour arose! 
Oh, Easter, glad Easter, and bright was thy day! 
i53 


154 


EASTER 


“Hosanna! Hosanna! He conquers all foes!” 

There is triumph in heaven, in sheol dismay. 

He is risen! O, grave, where now is thy boast! 

He is risen! O, death, and where now is thy sting 
Rejoicing we join with the heavenly host, 

And shout with the angels till star-spaces ring. 

All glory to God in the highest. Amen. 

As in the beginning, so aye let it be. 

Hosanna till heaven’s vault echoes again ; 

For Jesus is risen, and Man shall be free. 


MEMORIAL HYMN 


Hymn sung at the memorial exercises of Trinity Episcopal 
Church, Emmetsburg, Iowa. 

Asleep in Jesus, soldiers, rest 
Where bugle calls no more molest. 

In garlands of your country wound, 

May your last slumber be profound. 

Asleep in Jesus, nevermore 
To be disturbed by battle roar; 

Remembered by these stars of gold, 

Whose brightness never shall grow old. 

Mid glad acclaim of flags and bells, 

We wind each brow with immortelles, 

And pray God’s angels vigil keep, 

Where fair Columbia’s heroes sleep. 


i55 


O, HOLY SPIRIT 

Tune, Zephyr, 87 
WHITSUNDAY 

O, Holy Spirit, vital calm, 

That makes the Sabbath day so sweet 

It heals me with a heavenly balm, 

And draws me to the mercy-seat. 

O, Holy Spirit, Comforter, 

That speaks, and lo! my sorrows cease 

With love my deepest senses stir, 

And all my life flows on in peace. 

O, Holy Spirit, breath of God, 

With incense filling all my soul; 

That frees me from the clinging clod, 
And makes my broken spirit whole. 

O, Holy Spirit, power divine, 

That moves upon my life today; 

Thy guiding light doth constant shine, 
And bless me with its heavenly ray. 


156 


GOD-KIND 


We think thy thoughts, O, mighty God! 

Thy thoughts that thrill through space afar— 
That hold in place each twinkling star, 

And permeate the teeming sod. 

We think thy thoughts, and live thy life; 

Our souls are fathered by thine own, 

And high as is thy holy throne, 

So high we mount from sin and strife. 

We live thy life, and love thy love; 

The tendrils of our souls entwine 
Our fellow men, as love divine 
Entwines and draws us all above. 

We think, and live, and love, and grow, 

Like thee, in ever brightening ways. 

We are God-kind, and all our days 
Are in thy hands who made us so. 


157 


PEACE ON EARTH, GOOD WILL TOWARD 
MEN 


O, bells, O, throbbing bells, O, joyous bells! 

Proclaim the peace of God through all the earth! 
From out your million throats the anthem swells, 
And rolls from pole to pole to tell the birth 

Of Christ, the Son of God, the Morning Star;— 
Redeemer of the world, and victor, he, 

O’er death and hell and all the sins that war 
Against the soul of man. Forever free! 

O, send the rapturous peals of joy and peace 
To join the stars, to find their way 
To heart of earth, and thrill its plains and seas; 
And, best of all, to hold eternal sway 

Within the human heart. O, peace, sweet boon 
Of heaven breathed down on man by angel lips, 
To stay with breath of life the fierce simoon 
Of sin; to stop forevermore the Sun’s eclipse,— 

The Sun of Righteousness that hath at last 
Arisen with healing in his wings. Proclaim 
The joyous news, O, bells: God’s armies massed 
For peace against the works of sin and shame. 

158 


PEACE ON EARTH 


159 


I hear it pulsing in the radiant sky: 

“Good will toward men!” I hear the bells of all 
The world uniting in the glad reply: 

“Mankind redeemed forever from the Fall. ,, 

O, join the anthem, all ye sons of God, 

Joint heirs with Christ to all God holds in store; 
Crowned new this glorious Christmas morn ; new shod 
With peace; the Christ made ours forevermore. 


THE MERMAID’S SONG 

’Tis not the moon, 

I know, I know, 

That makes the ocean ebb and flow; 

’Tis not the moon, 

No, no! 

’Tis love, ’tis love, 

I know, I know, 

That thrills the heart of the ocean so; 

’Tis yearning love, 

I know;— 

Triumphant love, and the undertow 

Is a woman’s heart, 

I know, I know, 

A happy heart, 

I know. 

’Tis not the sun, 

I know, I know, 

That makes the rainbow come and go; 

’Tis not the sun, 

No, no! 

’Tis love, ’tis love, 

I know, I know, 

That tints the spray with the iris glow; 

’Tis love’s sweet kiss, 

160 


THE MERMAID’S SONG 


I know. 

Love’s radiant kiss, and the luring bow 

Is love’s bright crown 
I know, I know, 

Love’s aureole, 

I know. 

’Tis not the winds, 

Ah, wo! ah, wo! 

That thrash and trample the ocean so; 

’Tis not the wind, 

No, no! 

’Tis angry love, 

I know, I know, 

That beats the wave into spindrift snow; 

’Tis angry love, 

Ah, wo! 

The wrath of love, and the shuddering throe 

Is a woman’s heart, 

I know, I know, 

A maddened heart, 

I know. 

’Tis not the boreal breath, 

Ah, me! 

That freezes the heart of the polar sea; 

Not wintry wind, 

Ah, me! 

’Tis injured love, 

(Ah, whisper low!) 

That chills the Polar Ocean so; 


THE MERMAID’S SONG 


162 


’Tis wounded love, 

I know. 

’Tis wounded love, and the icy floe 
Is a woman’s heart, 

I know, I know,— 

A broken heart, 

I know. 


LOVE AND I 


We kept our happy watch together, 

Love and I, 

In all the golden, dreamy weather 
When June held in fee the sky. 

We watched the rainbow in the Blue; 

Armfuls of roses for us two; 

We knew our dreams would all come true, 
Love and I. 

We kept our steadfast watch together, 

Love and I, 

Through sad October’s mournful weather, 
When the winds went moaning by. 

Our eyelids strained against the sleet, 

But not an inch would we retreat; 

We held at bay death and defeat, 

Love and I. 

We keep our cheerless watch together, 
Love and I, 

Through all the dark and stormy weather, 
Under winter’s shuddering sky. 

A mound between us, piled with snow, 

Ice in our hearts, yet we’ll not go; 

We’ll keep our watch through darkest throe, 
Love and I. 

163 


164 


LOVE AND I 


We’ll keep our happy watch together, 
Love and I, 

Through all the bright supernal weather, 
Under heaven’s eternal sky. 

We’ll watch the dross turn into gold; 

We’ll watch eternity unfold, 

And, Oh! each other’s hands we’ll hold, 
Love and I. 


MOLLY BAWN 


O, green the sedges grow beside 
The pond in Pioneer; 

And greener grow the graves of those 
Who once were dwelling here. 

The mill was busy all the day, 

With happy hum and whirl; 

About the idle millstone now 
The ivies cling and curl. 

O, many a stilly afternoon, 

And many a summer dawn, 

The lilies moved to the old canoe 
Of me and Molly Bawn; 

And many a night, when moon was full, 
And echoing hills and glades 

Resounded to the joyous shouts 
Of merry men and maids, 

With hearts aglow like burning stars 
That filled the winter sky, 

We sped along through realms of love, 
Sweet Molly Bawn and I; 

And Molly gave her promise there, 
Whose sweetness shall abide 

165 


166 


MOLLY BAWN 


When every star has faded out, 

And all but love has died. 

She slumbers now, sweet Molly Bawn, 
Beneath the linden shade, 

Where first the violets bloom in spring, 
And last the summers fade. 

All season long the wood-thrush sings, 
Deep in the grove withdrawn, 

The songs he sang so long ago 
To me and Molly Bawn; 

And lovers fly along the ice, 

Or push the old canoe 

Among the water-lilies now, 

As we were wont to do. 

And through their joy a gentle voice 
Is calling ever on 

To where my soul shall meet the soul 
Of angel Molly Bawn. 


NIGHT 


Softly, dear night, are thy tresses 
Hiding the world’s labor scars; 

And though one sees not, yet one guesses 
That over one’s head shine the stars. 

O, fit is thy dim realm for dreaming,— 

For dreaming, and weeping, and sleep; 

For then, though the eyes may be streaming, 
The world cannot know that they weep. 

I weep not; I fold thee around me, 

Sweet night, and I clasp thy cheek close. 
Softly thy tresses have wound me; 

I weep not; I dream and repose. 


167 


BIMINI 


The sleigh-bells, 

The May-bells, 

The sweet buds 
Are mine; 

The starlight, 

The far light 
In fond eyes, 

The wine! 
Hillo-ho! hio-ho! 

The fond eyes! 

The wine! 

Osiris 
And Iris, 

The mermaid, 

The Queen 
Of Fairy, 

So airy, 

The sweet Hippocrene! 

Hillo-ho! hio-ho! 

The sweet Hippocrene! 

The morning 
Adorning 
The East 


168 


BIMIMI 


169 


Calls me fair. 

O jolly! 

The holly— 

The holly I wear. 

Hillo-ho! hio-ho! 

Youth is so sweet! 

It thrills me 
And fills me 

From crown to my feet; 

Hillo-ho! hio-ho! 

My gay dancing feet! 

Hillo! hillo! hio! ho, ho! ho, ho! 

Puck, singing to Ponce de Leon, as he sleeps on a bank 
of flowers. 


SERENADE 


Soft stars shining, 
Clouds reclining 
On the lining 
Of the Blue. 

Roses feeling 
O’er them stealing, 
Like hands of healing, 
Mists of dew. 

O, sweet maiden, 
Slumber-laden 
Airs of Aidenn 

Bring thee dreams! 
Come each fairy, 

Light and airy, 
Sweetly tarry 
In her dreams. 

Now she’s sleeping; 
O’er her creeping, 

In Love’s keeping, 
Dream-wings light. 
Guard her, Venus, 
While between us, 
Dark between us, 

Falls the night. 

170 


FAIRY LULLABY 


Lullaby, O, lullaby! 

Baby Darling, close your eye, 
While the beautiful Queen Mab 
Swings you by a spider-web 
From a lily white and tall, 

Near some Dream-land waterfall, 
Rocking with her tiny hand 
To a tune of By-lo-land. 

Lullaby, O, lullaby! 

Lullaby, O, Lullaby! 

Stars are peeping in the sky; 

Birdie snuggles in his nest; 

Baby, close to Mother’s breast, 
Drifts away to land of sleep, 
Through the gates the angles keep, 
Gently rocked by Mother’s hand 
On a cloud in By-lo-land. 

Lullaby O, Lullaby! 

Lullaby, O, Lullaby! 

Baby Darling, close your eye. 
Mother’s love is sweet and warm; 
Mother’s breast keeps off the storm. 
Drowsy, drowsy, to and fro,— 


172 


FAIRY LULLABY 


Long eyelashes drooping low: 
Baby’s little pink feet stand 
Deep in blooms of By-lo-land. 
Lullaby, O, Lullaby. 


WHAT IS IT THAT TUGS AT MY HEART? 


Perfection of earth in her October dress; 

Perfection of sky in a gown of soft haze; 

Far vistas that lure me to wonder and guess 
What landscapes eternal lie hid from my gaze. 

The glory! the glory! and yet, Oh, the smart! 

What is it that tugs at my heart? 

A valley lies skirted with woods on each side, 

Dear Valley of White Oak, the home of my youth; 
Clear Creek and the cool “Upper Spring” with its tide 
Of waters as sweet as the fountain of truth. 

The glory! the glory! and yet, Oh, the smart! 

What is it that tugs at my heart? 

My memory, river with margins of gold, 

Flows through that dear Valley, and I a light boat, 
Float there among lilies, where echoes are rolled, 

As sweet as the song from the mockingbird’s throat. 
The glory! the glory! and yet, Oh, the smart! 

What is it that tugs at my heart? 

Old Homestead, with windows swung wide to the night; 

The moonlight streams in over forms that I love; 

An unbroken home; sleeping sound, sleeping light, 

173 


174 WHAT TUGS AT MY HEART? 


And over them spread the white wings of a dove. 
The glory! the glory! and yet, Oh, the smart! 

What is it that tugs at my heart? 

I wander by Clear Creek with old willow rod, 

A chub and a shiner or two on my string, 

A greensward as soft as a mortal e’er trod, 

And a foot that is light as a young eagle’s wing. 
The glory! the glory! and yet, Oh, the smart! 

What is it that tugs at my heart ? 

I walk over fields where ’twas I led the charge; 

I feel the old itch of my hand for the sword,— 

My jeweled Excalibur, keen for the targe, 

When battles were on in behalf of my Lord. 

The glory! the glory! and yet, Oh, the smart! 

What is it that tugs at my heart? 

I stroll through the moonlight again with my bride, 
While the earth like an opal burns under my feet. 
I feel the warm surges of life at high tide, 

And the touch of her hand is supernally sweet. 

The glory! the glory! and yet, Oh, the smart! 

What is it that tugs at my heart ? 

I push a gate gently:—Alone with the dead; 

The underground city so packed and so drear! 

I stroke the grass softly; I bow my gray head; 

And I know that I, too, shall soon journey down here. 
The glory! the glory! and yet, Oh, the smart! 

What is it that tugs at my heart ? 


CHRISTMAS, 1915 

O, gentle Babe of Bethlehem, 

With humble hearts we kneel, 

And meekly touch thy garment’s hem 
Full sure that it will heal. 

O, gentle Babe in lowly stall, 
Triumphant now above, 

O breathe good will and peace to all 
The many friends I love. 


i75 


CHRISTMAS, 1916 


Suffer all the little tots 
To scamper up to me; 

Forbid them not to leap and shout 
About the Christmas tree. 

The joy of Jehovah twinkles 
Through the branches green; 

His smile is woven in and out 
Among the tinsel sheen. 

How long the world has wandered blind, 
What useless outrage done 

By teaching kids that God can’t joke, 

Or have a bit of fun. 

He leaps and gambols in the meadows 
All the summer long, 

With butterflies and bumblebees, 

Where clover blossoms throng; 

He tumbles in the water with 
The green and freckled frogs, 

With dragonflies and pickerel, 

With pouts and pollywogs. 

1 76 


177 


CHRISTMAS, 1916 

But when it comes to Christmas day— 
That holy, happy time, 

Tis then he comes and romps with us 
In prankish pantomime. 

And shows us how to turn ’er loose, 

And rumpus with the kids 
In all their lilting laughter 
Till their sleep-encumbered lids 

Are folded for the coming night 
In dreams of Santa Claus, 

Where they whirl in happy dances, 

While the angels clap applause. 

And all the while he doesn’t know, 

Each merry little elf, 

That jolly, jingling Santa Claus 
Is just the Lord himself. 


CHRISTMAS, 1917 


Full many a Happy New Year, I mind, 

Full many a Merry Christmas, 

When apples, and cookies, and candy, and nuts 
Went galloping down my isthmus. 

I carried the key in those halcyon days 
Of life and its sanctum sanctorum; 

Prince Arthur’s shield, stout Siegfried’s blade, 
And the seven-league boots, I wore ’em. 

The pot of gold at the rainbow’s end, 

I still have it here in my treasure; 

For, like an old bee-tree, I’ve kept the sweets 
That boyhood packed here without measure. 

I think of my friend, whose life is to me 
Like the gold-sanded river, Pactolus, 

Of the woman I love, who loves me in turn, 

And breathes me the breath of Aeolus. 

And so I am happy this Christmas eve; 

My stocking right yonder is hanging; 

I gaze in the embers and see the Star, 

While winter outside is slambanging. 

178 


179 


CHRISTMAS, 1917 

So here’s to the lad of those halcyon days! 

And here’s to the years between us! 

I live in them all, from first to the last, 
And my evening star yonder is Venus. 


CHRISTMAS, 1918 

Three hundred and sixty-five days ago 
The hammers of Thor were slugging 
Away at the sills of Democracy, 

And the fangs of all hell were tugging 

Hard at the roots of the Tree of Life, 

That quaked from their devilish gnawing; 

The angels were sad; all demons were glad, 

And the steeds of the Kaiser were pawing. 

Poor Belgium panted, a wolf-torn lamb, 

And France lay gasping and bleeding: 

The Hun in his frenzy raped and burned; 

But God in the shadow was heeding. 

I sat there and gazed in the midnight murk, 

My faith still hugging its anchor; 

Foreseeing the day when the Bonny Blue Flag 
Would triumph o’er Germany’s rancor. 

Tonight through the universe runs a thrill,— 
The thrill of Millennium dawning; 

No more of the Hun, with his havoc, thank God! 
No more of his Kultur’s spawning! 

180 


CHRISTMAS, 1918 181 

The Boys are leaving the trench with its mud, 

Its cooties and “shell-proofs” gory. 

We welcome them back to the home of the free; 
We welcome them back to Old Glory. 

I sit here wrapped in a sweet content; 

A dove at my window is cooing— 

The dove of peace with the olive branch, 

That the heart of the world is subduing. 

O greatest day in the annals of God! 

The lamb has lain down with the lion; 

And the feet of him who publisheth peace 
Are kindling the slopes of Mount Zion. 

So hands all round! America mine, 

With Italy, France, and England! 

The clock is beginning to strike midnight, 

And Santa Claus' bells are jinglin’. 


CHRISTMAS, 1919 


Dear Uncle A1:—You said you wonder 
Whether any boy or girl 

Ever thinks to send old Santa 
Any toy, or card, or curl, 

Or ever thinks to say, “I thank you,” 
For the million gifts he brings, 

On his cold drives every Christmas 
With his pack of toys and things. 

So, you send him this short letter, 

To tell him we are all so glad 

For his love and all his presents, 

That each little lass and lad 

Gets so happy and excited, 

That our memories are drowned. 

Tell him, when we choose a ruler, 

He’s the fellow will be crowned. 

Tell him that we don’t forget him 
Never, never, never,—’cause 

All his Christmas gifts remind us. 

And say: “I love you, Santa Claus.” 


182 


CHRISTMAS, 1920 


Hurrah for the holly bough! 

Old winter is jolly now! 

We’ve waited all year; 

But Christmas is here, 

And joy on every brow. 

Adown the long slope they’re sped, 
The flying toboggan and sled; 
While skaters twine 
And the runners shine 
Like stars that sparkle o’erhead. 

The jolly and jargoning bells! 
Their tinkling in sweetness excels; 
The treasures of snow, 

And the laughter, O, 

With its musical magical spells. 

Hurrah for the holly bough! 

The children are jolly now; 

For winter is here 
With Christmas cheer, 

And joy on every brow. 


183 


CHRISTMAS, 1922 


May the season bring to you 
Your heart’s most fond desire: 

Old books to read, old friends to talk, 
And old wood for your fire. 

And when old books have lured you on 
Until you’ve reached “THE END.” 
When talk dies down and embers low, 
Then— “Peace be!” 

from Your Friend. 


184 


HEARTSEASE AND RUE 


Because on days so long and sweet, 

Because on nights so starry bright, 

When life and love flowed round my feet 
With gifts exceeding thought and sight; 
Because from heartsease then I kissed the dew, 

I will not mar the memory now by plucking rue. 


THE WHITE STAG 

(From Uhland) 


Three hunters went thrashing about with their brag; 
They were going, so said they, to hunt the white stag. 

But soon they lay down in the shade of a tree, 

And each had a dream, as you’ll presently see: 

(The first) 

I dreamed I was bustling about in the brush, 

When—away went the stag through the woods with a 
rush! 


(The second) 

And as he flew by with the clash and the clang 
Of hounds, I let drive with my rifle—ker-bang! 

(The third) 

When there on the turf the stag bleeding I saw, 

I lustily tooted my horn—tra-ra! 

They scarcely had finished relating their dream 
When the stag with his antlers went by like a gleam! 

And ere the three Nimrods aroused from the thrill, 

A white stag went vanishing over the hill, 

With a “rush,” and a “bang,” “Tra-ra!” 

186 


LOSS AND GAIN 


I once was rich, then all the poor 
Strewed blessings thick about my door; 

The rich walked with me, arm in arm, 

And in my presence found a charm. 

My wealth was swept into the sea; 

Then rich and poor deserted me. 

But I had learned to love and give: 

That grace I hold; by that I live. 

Fame lifted up my name on high; 

I rode on clouds; I touched the sky. 

There came a blast that chilled my fame, 

And those who praised were wont to blame. 

But all the discipline, the skill, 

I’d won the while, I have that still. 

While I was massing wealth I knew 
The wings on which wealth ever flew; 

Was mindful that the only gain 

Is what we learn through peace, through pain 

Was mindful that the only grace 

That blooms eternal in the face 

Is that sweet grace hid from the world 

Within the bosom chastely furled; 

A grace that wealth cannot supply, 

That lack of wealth cannot deny. 

187 


j. 88 


LOSS AND GAIN 


While fame was spreading sweetest sound, 
My ear was ever close to ground 
To catch the tramp of history’s feet 
That pass on to the judgment seat. 

They hasten not when fame incites; 

They dally not when wealth invites; 

But carry on into the gloom 
That chills the dark and voiceless tomb 
Those faithful motion-picture reels 
Whose record all our life reveals. 


THE BALLAD OF THE YOUNG WOODMAN 

“Listen, dear Mother, what call do I hear?” 

(Oh, the wind in the pine!) 

“It is nothing, Fair Alice, but the falls and the wier.” 
(And the lamp it is low.) 

“What was it, dear Mother, that flashed through the 
night?” 

(Oh, the wind in the pine!) 

“It was nothing, Fair Alice, but the beacon so bright.” 
(And the lamp it is low.) 

“What awful thing, Mother, lies stark at the door?” 

(Oh, the wind in the pine!) 

“ ’Tis the mantle, Fair Alice, the young Woodman 
wore.” 

(And the lamp it is low.) 

“What is it, dear Mother, they bear on the pall?” 

(Oh, the wind in the pine!) 

“ Tis the Woodman, Fair Alice, the young Woodman 
tall.” 

(And the lamp it is low.) 

She has knelt by the pall, and she’s kissed where they 
shot. 


189 


190 


BALLAD OF THE WOODMAN 


(Oh, the wind in the pine!) 

They chide and they call, but her lips answer not. 
(And the lamp it is low.) 


TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 

O Poet, to whom the sweet spirit of childhood 
Has whispered its secrets of pleasure and pain; 
Who knows every pathway of pasture and wildwood; 
Whose poems are.fresh with the dew and the rain; 

I cannot refrain till the grass is green over thee 
To tell thee I love thee, and follow thee close 
Through orchard and meadow, while summer skies 
hover thee,— 

By brook, and through tangles where “pizen vine” 
grows. 

I lie down and snooze under trees of thy making; 

I ride with Doc Sifers along country lanes; 

At springs of thy spirit my thirst I am slaking; 

I laugh with thy laughter and ache with thy pains. 

Let’s wander by “Deer Crick” knee-deep in June 
weather; 

Let’s dream through the summer to fall of the year; 
Let’s “tromp” through the fields till our hearts grow 
together; 

Let’s hunt for each other below the veneer. 

O, perfect in speech of the deep-lying passions l 
O, deft with that touch that is vital and warm! 

191 


192 TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 


With a wit that is like a Damascus blade flashing, 

A heart where all childhood is housed from the 
storm! 

I’m sent by the Heart of the People, whose portals 
Are open to thee. I dip in the wine 
My laurel, and crown thee among the immortals. 

Thy brows are right worthy; the laurel is thine. 


FAITH AND DOUBT 


Faith and doubt—the two great millstones 
Where the races have been ground 
Since time began. 

Faith the upper, doubt the lower— 

And between them, round and round, 
The heart of Man. 


193 


TO GEORGE FOX COOK 

(On the death of his son) 

My spirit give I unto thee, 

In double portion, O, my Friend! 
And when the flames shall drink the sea, 
And God shall call time at an end, 

My spirit still shall be with thee, 

In double portion, O, my Friend! 


194 


LOVERS’ LANE 


O, Lovers’ Lane, with haunting charm, 
Where spring and summer wed; 

Who comes here once will come again, 
Where happy hours are sped. 

What shadowy forms ! what hint of wings ! 

What silvery laughter there! 

What beckoning hands like fairy wands! 
What fragrance in the air! 

The wood thrush pours his vesper song 
To ears that love attunes; 

Their burning hearts are drunk with joy; 
The earth beneath them swoons. 

At night the star-beams tangle there 
In happy drops of dew; 

The moon in benediction beams 
To make their vows more true. 

Long years in joy I walked the shades, 
Sweet shades of Lovers’ Lane; 

But at the end I found a grave, 

And in my heart a pain. 


i95 


OLD CLEAR CREEK 


Your lover, old Clear Creek, is here on your brink;— 
Your lovers, I should say; for blithe bobolink 
Is blowing his bubbles of joiliest mirth, 

While brown thrasher seals to your beauty and worth. 
Your lovers,—the stars and the big May moon, 

The mink and the muskrat, the otter and coon, 

The chub and the shiner, the flat punkin-seed, 

The water-snake wriggling through pickerel weed; 

The sweetflag, the pebbles, the crawfish, the bog, 

The tadpole, the killdeer, the toad and the frog, 

Are chumming with me, as I lie in the shade, 

Or sprawl on your margin and watch the parade 
Of Spring with her flowers, and all the gay throng 
That shower me here with their beauty and song. 


196 


DESPAIR 


Sweet night is a gift of gentleness,— 

A life-renewing spring. 

But this black weft entangling me 
Is a raven vast with dead’ning wing, 

And a croak like a troubled sea; 

An eye that pierces the gloom like the sting 
Of Nithhoggr, the tooth of death, 

That nicks the thread and stops the breath,— 
A dark and deadly thing. 

Oh! what shall deliver my shrinking soul ? 

Oh! what shall pierce the pall 
Of those horrible wings that more and more 
Shroud in, while my senses crawl? 

The black wings flap, as my lips implore; 

(They shed the wormwood and the gall) 

I cry, and the hollow echoes drown 
My cry, and the empty laugh of a clown 
Mocks back from a vacuous hall. 


197 


BALLOONING SPIDERS 


As spiders from their spinners throw 
The films on which they sail the sky, 

So from my deepest bosom I 
Must build up yonder shining bow— 

The ladder upon which I rise 

From swale and swamp, from fog and reek 
To atmosphere of mountain peak,— 

From mountain peak to boundless skies. 

God gives to each the latent force 
To move along the shining road, 

And learn to change the weary load 
For eagle wing and star-lit course. 


THE RAINBOW BRIDGE 


I stand on the brink and gaze 
At the City in the Clouds; 

In purple and golden haze 
I glimpse the shining crowds. 

Between me and yon dome, 

The plunging rivers roar; 

And yet, yon is my home, 

And this a foreign shore. 

O, heart of me, catch the gay, 
Glad colors that there dispart, 

And build me a Rainbow Way 
To Asgard, O, my heart! 


TRUST 


I listened to the flowers 
That to the zephyrs nod; 

Their sweet lips kept repeating: 

‘‘We know there is a God/’ 

I saw their rain-wet faces 
Turned mournfully above; 

But still they smiled and whispered: 
“We know that God is love.” 

I saw their withered petals 
By autumn breezes strown, 

And thought to hear their voices 
Complaining like my own. 

But sweet reproof they gave me 
From lips low in the dust; 

For still they smiled, and whispered: 
“We know that God is just.” 


200 


BACK UNTO GOD 


Earth has no useless blooms that grow 
Upon her sod; 

Their beauties all and perfumes flow 
Back unto God. 

Earth has no loves that die and go 
Under the sod; 

They keep their broken dreams and flow 
Back unto God. 

Earth has no graves that vainly roll 
Clod unto clod; 

Through them doth creep the weary soul 
Back unto God. 


201 


THE FOUNTAIN 


A 

Drop 

At the top, 

A beautiful gem 
In the pearl diadem 
Of this nymph of the sea 
With her hair wild and free 
Streaming back through the mist 
In a spangled and multiform twist 
O’er the white robe of rainbow-lit spray 
That encircles in magical beauty alway 
This dream-world of laughter and song. 

At last in the peace of the marble-edged pool 
It dimples and dallies, deliciously cool, 
Where the sunbeams are drowned in the wave 
And the gold-fish and lilies in idleness lave, 
And the shadows dream all the day long. 

A 

Drop 

At the top, 

That no higher can go 
For a strange undertow 
That sucks the drop back 
To be drowned in the black 


202 


THE FOUNTAIN 


203 


Labyrinth of confusion and vortex of night; 

Hid from the manifold beauties of light; 

Lost to the life of this fount on the lea, 

To wake in the larger—the life of the sea. 

This life is a flow 
With a strange undertow. 

O, the rainbow, the pearl, 

And the unending whirl 

Of laughter and tears 

That weave, through the years, 

The turmoil of the sea 
And the peace of the stars 
With the mountain rill’s glee 
And the frenzy of wars! 

Leaping from basin to pool, out of breath, 

To be sucked back at last into darkness and death. 

But Death is not king: 

The chrysalid’s wing 
The searcher may trace 
On his fine mummy-case, 

Is mortality’s sign 
That immortal shall shine 
The soul that shall pierce here the secret divine. 

So the spirit of man with its heavenly thrills 
That are breathed down upon it on star-hovered hills 
While leaping in cascades and mad cataracts, 

Though it reach the low valley and sink in the sod, 
Shall come forth again in the likeness of God. 


TORCH AND BURDEN 


Here, take my torch, young man so fleet; 
I held it when you needed light; 

I cheered you on from height to height; 
Now comes your day, and comes my night 
Here, take my torch, young man so fleet. 

Here, take my burden, youth so strong. 
Once I could fly beneath its weight; 

I was the eagle’s tireless mate; 

Now unto you I abdicate: 

Here, take my burden, youth so strong. 

Here, take my torch, O maiden sweet! 

My torch I lit by morning star, 

My torch of love that beams afar 
Like Arthur’s gemmed Excalibur. 

Here, take my torch, O maiden sweet. 

Here, take my burden, maiden fair, 

And share it with yon youth so fleet, 

Who walks the earth on air-like feet; 

Ye twain shall conquer frost and heat! 
Here, take my burden, maiden fair. 

Here, take my torch, ye lovers twain! 

But why should I obstruct the road, 

And vex you with my weary load ? 

Nay, I will keep the pack and goad; 

But take my torch, ye lovers twain. 

204 


QUATRAINS 


A STORM AT SEA 


This is no ruthless, angry sea; 

I see no sign of cruel wrath: 

Just monstrous power in rollicking glee; 

Just God Almighty at his bath. 

THE VISION OF DANTE 

The crystal sweets of many tears 

Sobbed through a heart by grief made pure; 

As boulders ache a million years, 

Then break, and lo! the Kohinoor. 

WIN YOUR SPURS 

Win your own spurs, my lad. 

Don’t work the political lever; 

Don’t lean on the purse of your dad, 

But rise by your own endeavor. 

AUTUMN LEAVES 

Ye are prophets of death, of the grave and its cold; 
But ye whisper of peaceful sleep under the mould, 

Of sorrows forgotten in heaven’s warm fold, 

And ye shower down on me God’s love with your gold. 
207 


208 


QUATRAINS 

AMRITA 


Where laughter rollicks in the vat, 

Men drink, and call the draught divine; 
But true Amrita only flows 
Where Sorrow’s feet compel the wine. 


.BEHOLD, I WILL DELIVER THEE 

The jubilee! the jubilee! 

The tides have told it to the sea; 

It sweeps the wood from tree to tree; 

The angels cymbal it to me:— 

Behold, I will deliver thee! 


THE HEART AND THE BRAIN 

The poet’s heart, like ocean’s heaving surge, 
Beats on the brain with its tumultuous roar 
The poet’s brain, like ocean’s rocky verge, 
Beats back the heart in music evermore. 


THE PRICE 

If you will sell me one small thing;— 
If you would buy both place and pelf, 
And hear your name to welkin ring, 
Why, walk up quick! the price is^—self. 


QUATRAINS 

FATE 

The blind fates spin, year out year in; 

And yet, ’tis purpose clips the cord: 
For he who stands and guides those hands, 
Within the shadow, is the Lord. 


209 















JUVENILE 






















THE FAIRY’S KISS 


Down in a little woodsey dell, 

Where echoes romp and the brownies dwell, 

A fairy snuggled in the cup 
Of a morning-glory tilted up. 

Her voice was low, and her laugh was cute 
As the tinkling notes of the Elfland lute 
She held in her hand, and which, I thought, 
Was a moonbeam she had somehow caught. 
She dangled her feet in pink shell shoes, 

And sang as soft as the falling dews. 

She sang the songs they sang that morn 
The Prince of Fairyland was born: 

The songs of love, which, I suppose, 

Paint those pink tints on the opening rose. 

With tousled hair and grimy face, 

There happened along this enchanted place 
A boy who would scrap like a grumpy bear, 
Whenever they washed him or combed his hair. 
The fairy frowned,—and the air grew still; 
And the urchin felt a shuddery thrill 
Go shivering through the startled leaves, 
While queer little sounds his ear perceives. 
The fairy had tilted her megaphone, 

(I wish I could mimic that mellow tone,) 

213 


214 


THE FAIRY’S KISS 


And called as only a fairy can:— 

“Go wash your face, my little man! 

Your hands are black, and your hair— Oh law! 
You’re the dirtiest boy I ever saw.” 

The lad looked down as soon as he heard, 

And saw right there,—you take my word, 

In a purple morning-glory curled, 

The prettiest fairy in all this world. 

If she’d been a boy, just like enough 
He’d a pitched right in for a fisticuff; 

But who could fuss with a charming fay 
Like a dew-pearl hung on a harebell spray? 

He mumbled over some words to himself, 

But she marked them down, the sly little elf; 

Then waved her wand, and—what do you s’pose? 

A big thorn grew on the end of his nose! 

And after that, if he would pout 
When they combed the snarly tangles out, 

Or brushed his teeth, or washed his face, 

When he went to school or any place, 

Out would bristle another spur, 

Till his nose looked just like a chestnut burr. 

One afternoon he stooped o’er a brook, 

And gazed at his face. My! what a look! 

Then he snatched up a stone and slammed in where 
His picture darkened the water there; 

Then he dipped some up in his grimy hand, 

And tried to wash the filth off, and, 

He noticed, as soon as he begun, 

The thorns went dropping, one by one. 


THE FAIRY’S KISS 


215 


But just the same, if he were slack 

In making his toilet, the thorns came back; 

Until at last he came to be 

The sweetest, rosiest lad you’d see 

In going from here to Washington Square, 

Or London Town, or anywhere. 

And then he wanted to see that fay 
I told you about the other day. 

So down he went, and peered about 
Among the ferns, and in and out, 

And there she sat all snug in the moss 
In a gown of mole fur soft as floss, 

And a mobcap made of a mouse’s ear: 

She was dressed, you see, for the time of year; 
But she didn’t care for ice and snows, 

And breath of North wind, goodness knows! 
And O she laughed, and O she clapped 
Her tiny hands till the cobweb snapped 
That held her muff, for very joy 
To see such a handsome, dimpled boy. 

And then she said— “Come taste the bliss 
Of a fairy’s love and a fairy’s kiss.” 

What happened then I never could tell; 

But the sun burst forth and a magic spell 
Was on the woods and in the sky. 

Wherever I turned my wondering eye 
The trees all danced, and the air had wings, 
And I saw and heard the happiest things! 

I must have dreamed; for a castle fair 


2 l6 


THE FAIRY'S KISS 


Reared its battlements in the air. 

I felt so sure it was all a dream, 

That I pinched myself till I had to scream; 

For there, in an arch of orange bloom, 

The boy and the fairy were bride and groom; 

And a voice was saying, as sweet as life:— 

“I pronounce you Man and Wife,” 

And the fairies all danced, and the nymphs were gay, 
And an elfin band began to play. 

Oh, what joy! and Oh, what fun! 

I shouted out loud, just as you’d have done; 

For thrills of joy in ripples ran— 

The happiest day since time began. 

And now every urchin about that place 
Is rubbing and scrubbing his rosy face, 

And looking about, since that occurred, 

Hunting for fairies, as I have he.rd. 


SANTA CLAUS 


“My eyes, what a lark!” old Santa Claus said, 

As he rolled like a butter-ball into his sled, 

And pulled a big bear skin up close to his chin, 
Working every-which-way to get it tucked in. 

Then he leaned back contented and puffed his old pipe, 
While his jolly face shone like a pippin dead ripe, 
And his beard floated back like the smoke from a train, 
Or a long line of snow-banks piled up in a lane. 

He stops at some cottage with presents galore, 

Or with a grand flourish pulls up at the door 
Of Paddy Flynn’s shanty, where children are thick 
As bees in a bee-hive, or rats in a rick. 

Now, while we’ve been talking just this little while, 
His reindeer have jingled him full twenty mile, 

And then, with a twinkle of silvery hoof, 

In a forty-foot leap, land him plump on the roof 
Of Squire Brown’s mansion, where cute little Ted, 
Wide awake as a kitten, is humped up in bed, 

There watching and waiting, all eye and all ear, 

For the tinkle of bells or the snort of a deer; 
Expecting old Santa, in spite of all locks, 

To leap into view like a jack-in-the-box. 

217 


218 


SANTA CLAUS 


But he and the Sandman are best of old friends, 

So when he starts off on a journey, he sends 
The Sandman along, just a little ahead, 

To visit each dwelling and each little bed, 

And scatter dream-dust from the skirts of the skies 
On all of the winkers of wide-open eyes. 

Sometimes a wise youngster will rub his lids hard, 
And stiffen his back like a soldier on guard, 

And be wide awake when the reindeer and sleigh 
Come lickety-brindle along the back way. 

But Santa can see you right through a stone wall; 
There’s no use in trying to fool him at all. 

Whenever you sit up and peep through a crack 
To catch the old fellow unloading his pack, 

Or slip down the stairway to peek in and see 
Who’s hanging the presents and things on the tree, 
He turns into Father or Mother so quick 
That no one has ever suspected the trick. 

So, when a boy thinks he sees Father about 
The Christmas tree, weaving the things in and out, 
It’s merely old Santa in one of his shapes 
To fool and to puzzle the young jackanapes. 

Then, presto! he wriggles back into his skin, 

And gallops away with a squint and a grin. 

So over the world he goes, jingling along 
With brownies and brownies,—my O, what a throng 
He dives down a chimney, or up through the floor, 
While in at odd corners the brownies all pour. 

And when all is ready the brownies advance, 

And circle the tree in a gay little dance; 


SANTA CLAUS 


219 


Then lay all the presents just where they belong, 

And vanish while singing a jubilant song. 

Then—when they are gone—and the house is all still. 
Except when the frost cracks a rafter or sill, 

Old Santa Claus kisses each sweet little face; 

He smoothes out the pillows and straightens the lace; 
Then turns to the presents and waves both his hands, 
Or raises an eyebrow—and there the tree stands. 


MY FIRST LOVE 

I was just eleven years, 

And Emma, she was ten; 

We went to same old country school, 
And fell in love, and then, 

One happy day she stood by me, 

And watched me draw a pig, 

And told me that she’d marry me 
Whenever we got big. 

We traded photographs that day/— 
Hers done in keel, I think, 

While mine, upon a match-box lid, 
Was scrawled in crimson ink. 

And then a dozen times a day, 

In inch-square envelopes, 

We told our loves, and vowed anew, 
On wraps for patent soaps. 

But in the bright and happy spring, 
When lovers’ hearts are gay, 

Her mother burned my letters up, 

And made me stay away. 


220 


MY FIRST LOVE 


221 


Yet still she sits beside me here, 
Glad of that old vow; 

And Emma, she is fifty-nine, 

And I am sixty now. 


WHO STOLE THE CHICKEN? 


O, I stood by de chicken-coop, an’ a-what did I see? 

(O de moonlight come by an’ by.) 

De debil hisself a-comin’ atter me. 

(O de moonlight come by an’ by.) 

O, I turn right roun’, an’ I kneel down to pray, 

(O de moonlight come by an’ by.) 

An’ de debil tuck a chicken, an’ he toted it away. 

(O de moonlight come by an’ by.) 

An’ I tol’ ol’ Massa, an’ a-what did he say? 

(O de moonlight come by an’ by.) 

“I spects dat chicken is a-fattin’ you today.” 

(O de moonlight come by an’ by.) 


222 


A CHARM FOR WARTS 


Pick a peck of pollywogs 
From a fen of freckled frogs; 

Catch a cat that clawed a coon 
In the darkest of the moon; 

Take a turgid, tumid toad, 

Reeking in the rutty road. 

Feed the cat 
Till he's fat 

With the broth of this and that; 

Take the fur, 

And the purr, 

And the road, 

And the toad, 

And the coon, 

And the moon, 

And stir them with the Great Horn Spoon. 
Smear this on the wicked wart, 

While the snorers snooze and snort. 

Peel it, core it, 

Slice in four it; 

Say some incantations o'er it. 

This will cure 
Sartin sure. 


223 
















FREE VERSE 















WAR 

A POEM IN THREE PARTS 

I 

THE GOD OF WAR SPEAKS 

Yes! I set them at it. 

Hey! my beauties, my hounds of hell! 

Your fangs drip blood; your bite drives mad. 

Did ever Nimrod hunt with such a pack? 

I look them over: Despair, Destruction, Fire, Curse, 
Famine, Rags, Fury, Grief, 

Torment, Disease, Hate, Anguish, Frenzy, Pain, Sor¬ 
row, Woe, Agony, Distress, 

Torture, Plague, Thirst, Starvation, Devastation, 
Nightmare, and Death! 

Where these hell-hounds hunt, hell’s curses follow like 
cancer and leprosy; there in their trail are sown the 
crops of dragon’s teeth. 

Aha! your yelps are music to my ear. 

You thrive in wake of war. 

You fatten on broken bodies and broken hearts. 

You hold high carnival where the wounded groan. 

You kennel where the roof-tree is rent and blasted. 
Run riot, my beauties, bellowing the blight of hell. 
Tear and rend; 


227 


228 


WAR 


Bay glad accompaniment to roaring cannon. 
Heigh ho! This is hell’s day of triumph. 


II 

TOMMY ATKINS 

A bullet-torn rag of a man, 

Consumed with loneliness, and pain, and thirst, 

I lie here on the battle-field, 

Deserted by all save the fiends of thirst and pain and 
despair, 

And this horror of darkness. 

Deserted by all? 

No! 

Over there is a wounded foeman. 

Here we lie, he and I, stabbed by the staring ey?s of the 
dead. 

Here we drag out the time, 

Sensing all the horrors that exult in the wake of this 
unholy war; 

Sensing what it is to be crucified on the cross of Royal 
ambition. 

Is it nothing to kings and emperors, nothing to the 
wide world, nothing to God, 

That I, that we, 

My dying foeman and I, 

Should be writhing here in all the rounds of torture ? 

Does our innocent suffering weigh nothing in the eternal 
balances ? 


WAR 


229 


Why are there doctors, nurses, Red Cross, sanitation, 
Y. M. C. A., K. C., hospital, dispensatory, 
priest ? 

Why all the Herculean toil, world round, spent for 
sheltering and feeding Man? 

Why all the wealth and time spent in smoothing out his 
path? 

Why all the busy fingers of Art striving to make the 
world attractive to his eye? 

Why the eternal appeal of the theatre, picture show, art 
gallery, to delight the soul of Man, in the unending 
panorama of the Life That Now Is? 

Why the churches that dot the world ? 

BECAUSE !!!!!!!!!!! 

The whole of life, 

The whole of eternity, 

Is for the finding of “the joy of the Lord,” and ap¬ 
propriating it to the soul of Man! 

It is for finding a cure for selfishness, 

That mother of all greed, of vice, of sin, of war; 

That spiritual incest, by which the halls of hell are 
peopled. 

It is for bringing Man into his inheritance of peace 
and joy. 

And yet—O Lord God of Hosts, hear me ere I die! 

What a futile fumble at the puzzle is this unholy war! 

Yes, here I lie, a bullet-torn rag of a man, 

While yonder are emperor, king, statesman, and ttiy 
own neighbor at home, 

All safe under their own roofs, 



230 


WAR 


Snug in bed with their wives, 

And with their babies near. 

Answer me, ye roots of all reasoning!— 

When shall king and kaiser, 

When shall selfishness. 

Desist from nailing men unto the cross, 

While they go by wagging their heads? 

All the millions who have been pinioned to the cross by 
the bloody hand of war,— 

All the heart-broken mothers, and widows, and maidens, 
Unite with me in demanding a reason why. 

Every mollecule in the huge earth shuddered with the 
awfulness of that cry that went appealing from 
that cross on Calvary—-"I thirst!” 

So do I! 

And is my thirst of no moment? 

I, too, cry it from the cross where I am nailed—“I 
thirst!” 

And over and over, my wounded foeman yonder is 
crying— 

‘‘Mich durstet!” 

Gird up thy loins, thou depth of all reasoning, and 
answer me like a god; for I will demand of thee! 
Who is my neighbor? 

In the subliminal deeps of the soul, 

There is no near nor far, 

And— My neighbor is he who needs me most. 

I feel it welling up from geyser deeps: 


WAR 


231 


My neighbor is yon wounded foeman, 

Whose tongue is a rope of thirst, 

Whose parched throat is a caldron of thirst, 

Whose life is broken on the wheel of war, and 
Dumped here on the scrap-heap. 

If I can drag my shattered body to where he lies, 

And pour between his lips the few scant drops from 
my canteen, 

I feel that I would like to do it for my neighbor’s sake. 

Yes, my neighbor, had I my life back, 

I would give it again, if by that sacrifice 
I could restore you whole and happy 
To that sweet maiden, whose picture you are devouring 
there with dying eyes. 

O, neighbor mine, 

It was your bullet pierced my breast, 

And mine that gored your body there! 

We forgive! 

But why?— Why ?—Why was it done? 

Yesterday I could have told you why. 

When I shot you, I could have told you why. 

Every soldier in all these armies can rattle off the 
reasons why. 

But on the dark and ghastly brink of the gaping grave, 
How those paltry, spurious reasons fade away! 

Now that I am dying, it all seems so foolish, so inane, 
So ghastly and so silly! 

So criminal! 

So idiotic! 


232 


WAR 


Who are we, anyhow, speaking by accident— 

English, German, Russ, French? 

Who are you, anyhow, wearing by accident, crown of 
King, Emperor, Kaiser, Czar? 

How came it, anyhow, that we are in opposing armies, 
Lunging at each other’s throats ? 

How came it that we are not marching elbow to elbow, 
Or, better, 

Working and achieving elbow to elbow, on farm, in 
shop, on throne, 

Neighboring elbow to elbow? 

Climbing heavenward elbow to elbow? 

Yonder, where we shall meet again so soon, 

My wounded foeman and I,—nay my wounded neigh¬ 
bor and I, 

We shall find neither Greek nor Jew, Russ nor German, 
French nor English. 

Foeman? Never! Not foemen, we, 

Just neighbors hunting for the same Tree of Life; 
Just neighbors smitten with some unaccountable confu¬ 
sion of tongues; 

Some accursed crookedness of thought or heart. 
Neighbors ? 

Nay, Brothers! 

Twine your hand in mine, my Brother, 

And let us die as we should have lived— 

Just Brothers. 


WAR 


233 


III 

CHRIST SPEAKS 

O, that thou hadst known, even thou, 

The things that belong to thy peace, 

Thou that callest thyself Kaiser! 

But now are they hid from thine eyes. 

I stretch my bleeding hands 

Over these dead bodies in No Man’s Land. 

Peace I leave with you; 

My peace give I unto you. 

Not as the world giveth, give I unto you. 


ENCELADUS 


My heart is hot within me! 

Heavy on my breast 
Lies Pelion on Ossa! 

Who buried me here ? 

Not Zeus. 

The greed of the world, 

The wrongs of the world, 

These are what weigh down my heart. 
What I saw in the Ghetto, 

What I saw in the police courts, 

What I saw in the packinghouses, 

What I heard in the counsels of capital, 
What I heard in the lobby of Congress, 
What suffering I saw among the poor,— 
These kindle this volcano in my heart. 

Zeus thinks he buried me here! 

Vulcan thinks he kindled this fire! 

Not so. 

The wrath of all wronged hearts, 

Tis this that feeds this white-hot furnace. 

Let me tell you, 

Ye dumb years of the past; 

234 


ENCELADUS 


235 


Let me tell you, 

Ye silent years to come; 

Let me tell you, ye patient beasts of burden— 

I mean you, ye hungry and cold, 

Ye who are tramping toil's treadmill; 

Let me tell you, 

Ye stars of the Milky Way; 

Let me tell you, 

Ye daughters of the horse-leech, 

That suck the blood of Labor;— 

I mean you, 

Ye purloiners of crusts from the mouth of hunger! 

I mean you, 

Ye deft stealers, 

Who steal according to law! 

Let me tell you: 

The wrath of Achilles was terrible, 

But the wrath of this mighty heart of Labor 
Will consume you some awful day! 

Zeus will be cremated here some day! 

Vulcan will writhe here some day! 

Let me tell you—! 

The burning of Rome was horrible! 

But this furnace 

That has smouldered through countless centuries 
In the heart of Labor, 

This furnace, heated seven times hotter, 

Is more terrible than hell! 

Let me tell you, 

Ye pharisees, hypocrites, profiteers, 


236 


ENCELADUS 


Let me tell you: 

THE ONLY SALVATION FOR THE WORLD 
IS IN THE FORGETTING OF SELF. 

The pauper must not envy the millionaire! 

The millionaire must not despise the pauper! 

The banker must love the beggar; 

The beggar must love the banker! 

What has Dives taken with him 
Beyond the grave? 

Just Dives himself,—that’s all; 

He can point to no possessions, 

No bank account, 

To inflate his personal importance. 

He can point to no fawning followers 
To prove his station; 

He can just point to Dives,—that’s all. 

He stands or falls by what Dives is. 

He can point to no rags on Lazarus 
To prove him a beggar; 

He can point to no sores; 

He can find no marks of the beggar; 

He can behold just Lazarus, 

And what Lazarus is. 

O, Capital, reach me your hand! 

O, Labor, reach me your hand! 

Ye twain are one flesh, 

And verily, 

What God hath joined let no man put asunder. 


AMPHION 


The mockingbird in yonder mimosa 

Is singing the songs the heart of love has sung 

Since first, 

In dream-lit gardens of Paradise, 

The dew-drops clung to the lips of lilies. 

All day long he is singing:—and all night long:— 
“Sunshine, starshine, 

Sanctify the straws my Love is gleaning 
To thatch her nest. 

Wave-sparkle, dew-sparkle, light-sparkle, life-sparkle, 

Weave your sparkles among these twigs 

To light the spark in the throats 

That shall wing forth 

From this nest. 

Life, life, life, life, 

Permeate the thatching here! 

Pervade the heart of my Love! 

For, except harmonies build this house, 

They labor in vain that build it.” 

All the night long he sings in the mimosa, 

All the day long in the magnolia, 

While the walls of this little Thebes rise 
At the bidding of this Amphion. 

237 


238 


AMPHION 


All the night long he sings, 

And under the heart of a woman, 

Who leans listening from her casement, 
This harp of Amphion, 

Struck by the finger of God, 

Is building a man. 


I HOLD THE REINS 


Why do you think me crazy, 

Ye staid and sanctified souls, 

Because I cavort in the show-ring? 

Why do you think me running off with the bits in my 
teeth, 

Because I ramp, rough-shod, over the hills, 

In all sorts of criss-cross, hit-and-miss ways— 

With little attention to trails? 

Why do you stare because I stampede through canyons, 
Aroyas, 

Stopping not for contravening rivers,— 

Plunging in, dress suit and all? 

That’s my style! 

Why do you hold your breath in astonishment, 
Because I plunge, 

Like an eagle, 

Ten thousand feet down, chariot and all? 

I like it that way! 

Slambang we go, 

Through Vulcan’s smithy, 

Upsetting the ladles of melted tufa, 

239 


240 


I HOLD THE REINS 


Laughing in glee, 

At our own high jinks, 

And don’t give a damn! 

Never you doubt, though, 

When my hub smashes into the wheels of Mesala’s 
chariot, 

But what it was planned. 

Never you doubt, 

When my steeds send the chariot that holds the sun, 
Bowling into the ocean,—Never you doubt,—that 
I hold the reins! 


TOMMY ROT! 


A weaver sits at Court. 

He has 
A 

Wonderful loom, 

With fruit of “pure color.” 

None but the initiated may see the web, 

He says. 

He calls it “Free Verse,” 

“The New Beauty.” 

The King, 

The Queen, 

The maids of honor, 

Stand about and praise volubly, 

Lest they be classed with the “uninitiated.” 

They praise: 

“The ‘New Beauty’! 

Behold! 

Old things are passed away, 

And 

All things are become new!” 

The courtiers tumble over themselves 
To get to it. 


241 


242 


TOMMY ROT! 


“Wonderful!” 

“Wonderful!” 

“Wonderful !” 

Huh! 

I can’t see the web. 

There isn’t any; 

But there is a mighty rattling of the loom! 
“What fools these mortals be!” 

Tommy rot! 

I whip out my rapier and slash the magic web 
The gig’s up. 


THE END 







































































































































































































































































































